“—Once in Abilene, fifteen years ago, I blew in with money burnin’ holes in my jeans. And I sat up to a poker game and lost it. I remember it mos’ clearly because a woman sang through that crowd like I never heard anybody sing since. And she was totin’ a little girl in her arms while she sang. Through that rough crowd—singin’ the kid to sleep while she sang for the house. And I remember her lookin’ at the professional which was relievin’ me and four others of our spare cash. A woman only looks at one man like that. Then she passes on, singin’ down the lanes. I’m readin’ my cards close and I makes a bet, but the professional don’t seem to hear me. He’s pretty young, too, and as handsome as a marble statue. You know. But he’s lookin’ after the woman. Some kind of a word passes ’round that saloon. I turns and sees her close to some other gent. She’d stopped singing and was talkin’ to him. Next I knew the hair was singed on the top of my head, I hears the woman screamin’, and since then I never have been able to stand the sound. But the fellow near her is on the floor and the gambler at my table is goin’ hell-bent for the door. Never saw him in Abilene again.”
He lifted the cigarette, turning it in his fingers so that small spirals of smoke jetted upward. He inclined forward just a little and each following word dropped rhythmically into the silence. “I want to tell you boys, Dead Card John will see that girl gets every penny of her will. How long’s he been in the country—five-ten years? Yeah. And he ain’t ever told a soul his name, and he ain’t ever made friends with man, woman or child. He’s a crook, always was a crook. But I’m tellin’ you he’ll keep his word tonight and tomorrow and the next day to that girl. For his real name is Chasteen, and he was the gambler I sat with a long time back in Abilene. And this Ray Chasteen, though she don’t know it, is his own daughter.”
“Get out! Wait—here, figger this. Ray’s mama, Jenny Chasteen, died here six years back. No, five. Dead Card John drifted in right after. Ray was took care of by folks in Terese. She’s been singin’ goin’ on four years, like her mama. I’ve seen Dead Card John stand by the bar and listen—” Bristow stopped and reared, black eyes snapping. “But I don’t believe it none!”
“Who picked the girl out of the sheriff’s arms last night when she fainted in the saloon?” was Joe’s gentle interrogation.
“Hell’s pit! But, man, why wouldn’t he say he was her dad—if he was?”
Joe shook his head, wistfully sad. “The man’s been a crook all his life. He shot a gent in Abilene out o’ plain jealousy. And then he run, desertin’ a wife and little girl. Do you figger he’d tell her now? She’s straight, she was to be married to a straight gent. No, it was Dead Card John’s play to keep his mouth shut and feed on his heart because o’ what he couldn’t do. I’m tellin’ a man’s secret, which I’d ought to be shot for. But that’s why I’m on his side o’ the fence.”
Bristow got up and looked around at his friends. “Well, boys?”
They were all on their feet, crowding down into the light. Crowheart Ames spread his elbows to keep his place, protesting. “Say, don’t swallow that guff. What’re you goin’ to do?”
“Shut up, Ames!”
Somebody spoke quietly and swiftly to Bristow. “Get that bunch out of the ranch-house. We’ll set a ring around Nuggins’s party and take him to camp.”
“Done.”
“I’ll bring the boys this far,” said Joe, turning to the door. “Turn out the lantern. If I was you, I’d hold Mister Ames close by. When Nuggins loses, Mister Ames also loses a cut in the profits.” He bent into the sweeping rain with the sound of the sheriff’s struggle behind; he crossed to the main house, challenged the open door softly and passed the guard. Somebody collided with him; Indigo cursed the blackness. “Get off my bunions, yuh clodhopper.”
“All right, let’s travel.”
“Oh—Joe?”
Dead Card John answered from near the fireplace. “What are they doing?”
Joe smiled. And being a wise man, he was glad he could say this in the darkness. “I just got ’em in good humor by recitin’ a few stories about when I was a kid in Abilene. Upon mature judgment the old-timers figgered they’d play our cards. They’ll be waitin’ by the barn. Let’s go.”
Above the scraping of feet and the clash of voice he heard Dead Card John’s reply, even and threatening. “I want to see you at daylight, Breedlove.”
“Daylight’s an hour off,” murmured Joe, “and lots of water will run under the bridge meanwhile.” Indigo was beside him, identified by a honeyed, sing-song profanity. Shoulder to shoulder they left the ranch-house and slid across the muddy yard. They were challenged at the barn, the groups merged. Bristow assumed command with a crisp order. “You fellows spread around the bunkhouses to the right. We’ll take the left and do the same. I’ll give Nuggins a chance to come out with a whole skin and no trouble. If they figger to argue the matter, let ’em have it in the guts.”
The partners turned and started circling the lights of the bunkhouse. Bristow’s cautious summons came faintly through the sheeting rain. “Where’s that tall stranger? I want him with me.”
Joe swung back, pulling Indigo with him. “A grandstand seat for us.”
“It don’t feel right to me,” grumbled Indigo. “This Nuggins is a man who wouldn’t expose himself in a place like that, with lights burnin’. They’s a dead skunk in the barnyard.”
They found Bristow by his repeated summons. Indigo, as wary as a wolverine, wanted to know where the sheriff was.
“One of my men was watchin’ him last I knew,” said Bristow.
“I’ll bet he’s shed his skin and departed elsewhere,” Indigo prophesied. “That bunkhouse light burns plumb too steady.”
“Come on. We’ll find out in a minute.”
* * * *
The crowd had melted away. Bristow and the partners, accompanied by a fourth man unknown to Joe, walked directly toward the light, side by side. Figures cut across the beacon’s outflung beams—Bristow’s party running around the place. Twenty yards from it, the four stopped.
“I’ll go and kick open the door,” said Joe. “And step aside. You fellows do the necessary talkin’.”
He left them, touched the bunkhouse wall and crawled along it until his exploring fingers reached the latch. He wasted no time; up came the latch. His boot struck the door and threw it open. Recoiling in the shadows he heard Bristow, somewhere to one side of the wide and yellow beam, shout a harsh command. “Yo’re surrounded. We got yuh two to one, Nuggins! Come out and give up— By God, they’ve flew the coop!”
“Hah!” yelled Indigo. “I thought so! That sheriff jasper—lookit the barn!”
A gun exploded twice over by the ranch-house. Joe knew then Nuggins had swapped shelter and now held the fort. Turning at Indigo’s command, he saw the barn emitting a blood-red glow. It grew with incredible swiftness; a tongue of flame lashed out of a loft opening, the windows were like ruby eyes. All that straw and loose hay seemed to catch at once and to set up a small explosion that tore the great door from its runway; the shadows of the yard were dissolved.
“Under the spot!” yelled Indigo. “Now ain’t that fine! Come on—we’re targets right now! Tear that damn’ house offen its foundations!”
Joe galloped over the slippery earth to come abreast his enraged, embattled partner. The rest of the besiegers closed upon the house in a long and irregular line. Indigo, whose every instinct was fashioned for a moment like this, launched a shrill yell at them. “Buck into it—tackle it all sides. Some o’ you buzzards flap yore wings up the porch posts. Keep ’em busy—bust the windows—ram down the front door. Eeeyip! I never did like this mess, but I aim to get my money’s worth now.”
* * * *
The barn walls were shot with red streaks; the tinder-dry rafters inside began to snap and crash. There was a vast droning of air rushing through the open mouth of the place and a snoring of flames high against the roof. That sharp snapping sounded a great deal like gunshots to Joe; and when a jet
of mud sprang out of the ground and plastered his cheeks he understood his ears hadn’t been playing him tricks. Nuggins had his men posted at every available aperture on this side of the house. One of the party beside him weaved like a drunk and pitched headlong in the muck, rolling over and over. Joe and Indigo and Bristow arrived at the caved-in rear door of the house at the same moment and threw themselves out of range. Flat in the mud they felt the sudden explosion inside. The trap had sprung before the quarry entered its jaws.
“Now,” grunted Joe. All three of them hooked their guns around the side posts and raked the interior. Diversion. “Now,” repeated Joe. The three rose and plunged inside, broke apart and hurled themselves onward across the floor. From the corner of his eye, Joe saw Indigo bent far over, feet planted wide, throwing shot after shot into some black corner. The little man was at the peak of his fighting capacity. But Bristow had either fallen or gone on into the main room. As for himself, Joe rammed a table and felt his feet come from under him, locked around by a pair of arms. In falling, he turned and doubled. His gun laid along solid flesh, the grip on his legs relaxed; his third twist brought him across the man’s body and he smashed his gun barrel a second time upon the other. That fight was over. Joe ripped the assailant’s revolver free and crawled out to open space.
The blazing barn sent its light into the house through every opening. Light and shadow laid side by side. Men ran all over the place; they stamped across the floor above him, they fought solitary duels from room to room. Somebody rolled down the stairway, taking a part of the railing with him. Indigo’s shrill cry sounded out of a remote corner and Joe, wiping blood from his nose, knew that nothing but wreckage lay along his partner’s trail. As for himself, he got up and hurried into the main room. The house was crowded with attacker and attacked and the semi-darkness was all in favor of Nuggins’s smaller party. He ran to the fireplace, kicking the logs to fresh flame. He circled the walls, striking a match at each wick. A shot splintered the floor at his feet; whirling, he swept the corners, and saw nothing. Either the shot was a stray or else somebody hung around a corner, out of sight. Somehow, the fighters avoided this main room. They were advancing and retreating to distant crooks and crannies. Joe edged toward the front of the room, attention divided between two possible coverts. The door leading into the dining-room struck him as being open to inspection and he trained his gun upon it, walking in an arc that would give him a better view. Somebody shouted. Crowheart Ames plunged through that door, hatless, wild-eyed.
“Where they at? Where’s Dead Card Johnny—Nuggins?”
Joe studied the man narrowly. It seemed to him this precipitous entrance had been badly faked. “What side are you fightin’ on, Mister Ames?”
The sheriff dropped his gun, glowering at Joe. “It ain’t my place to do no fightin’. If I plug a few shots at Nuggins it’s all right, because he’s in wrong. But it don’t help a law officer none to get tangled in a private war. I’m out of it right now.”
“Still playin’ both ends against the middle, Mister Ames?”
“Yuh know too much!” cried the sheriff. “I’d advise yuh to keep yore mouth shut. It’ll pay yuh. This is a big county to get lost in.”
“Next time you want to take a pot shot at me,” said Joe, “get a little farther away or I’ll drop you.”
The echo of fighting grew smaller. Men were collecting in adjoining rooms, checking up. There was a scuffle upstairs and an exchange of shots out in the yard. Joe heard a faint sound come through the door beside the fireplace, in that room whence Rube Mamerock had taken the girl earlier in the evening. He stepped over and threw the door open. Crowheart Ames drew a great breath, as if to shout. Joe turned and checked it with a single glance. A lamp sat on a table of that room and two men stood face to face across the light—Dead Card John and Praygood Nuggins, each with his hands clamped against the table’s edge, each bending forward.
“Shut the door, please,” droned Dead Card John, never moving his eyes.
Joe quietly closed it. Crowheart Ames looked around him wildly and Joe saw the sudden sweat breaking through the sheriff’s fat jowls. Men came down the stairs and in from the night and out of the dining-room. Nuggins’s partisans had been corralled, beaten and bereft of their weapons. Bristow appeared from the outside, soaking wet. And he looked to Joe.
“Where’s Dead Card John?”
Joe inclined his head toward the back room. Bristow started toward it, but stopped at Joe’s warning shake of his head. “Nuggins is there also.”
The sheriff began to swear. “I ain’t goin’ to stand here—” His whole body shook. Two shots exploded behind the door, a splinter rose from the paneling; and then the crowd, dead still, heard one more shot. But there was no other hole in the paneling. Boots struck the door, it opened; Dead Card John walked out, eyes brilliant against his white skin.
“The gentleman is dead.”
Bristow nodded as if it were a matter of course, and not particularly important. He began checking over the prisoners. “You boys have caused a hell of a mess. Maybe you had an honest doubt about Rube’s will. I’d be the last man to hold that against you. But when you knew we old-timers decided to throw in with Dead Card John, you ought to’ve had sense enough to figure the fight was over. You didn’t. You spilled blood. You played with Nuggins, knowin’ damn’ well what Nuggins aimed to do. All right. Now yo’re all goin’ to the jug and let Terese County think about it. Ames—rope these fellows up and watch ’em!”
The sheriff rose. “Listen—”
Bristow exploded. “By Judas, don’t stand there and argue! Yo’re skatin’ on thin ice right now. We got a mind to bust you. Do as yo’re told and do it sudden.”
Ames said nothing more. His forefinger tolled off a few men to help him. A man, quicker minded than the others, appeared from the night with a bunch of ropes and tossed them to willing hands. Bristow looked thoughtfully at Joe, seeming to debate over a particularly hard question.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Upstairs,” said a puncher.
Bristow turned and went up.
Indigo limped in from outside, water pouring out of him at every step. The fighting fervor was gone and he looked like some bantam rooster that had been doused with the water bucket. Gloom wreathed itself on his thin cheeks. He was a figure of suspicion and despair. And without a word he passed into the dining-room and began occupying himself with a crock of beans. Joe started to follow, then swung back with narrowing eyes. Ames returned from his trip, holding a rifle in his hands.
“Where did you steal that, Mister Ames?”
The sheriff had been beaten badly and there was nothing but sullen resentment in him. “I’ll take no lip offen you, stranger. It’s my own rifle.”
“Yeah?” drawled Joe. “What kind of a rifle? Looks like I saw somebody else usin’ that tonight.”
The sheriff refused to answer. An adjoining puncher spoke for him. “It’s his gun, all right, stranger. Nobody but him has got a Krag.”
Joe squared his shoulders, the pleasantry fading from his blue eyes. The crowd, puzzled by the scene, gave Joe a curious attention. Indigo heard his partner talking and, from the tone Joe used, he knew trouble to be in the air. Spurning the bean crock he crossed to his partner’s side. Joe pointed at the sheriff’s gun. “He says it’s his gun, and that he’s always owned it. I been furnished with the further information that he’s about the only gent around Terese usin’ a Krag.”
“What about it?” growled Ames, frowning. He was angry and nervous and ill at ease.
Joe put thumb and forefinger in his vest pocket. “Maybe that explains a mystery I figgered wouldn’t ever come to light. Me and my partner was up at Sam Trago’s shanty yesterday and we ran across the spot where he’d been ambushed. And we found this shell.” He pulled it out and held it up for inspection. And he added, very quietly, “It’s a Krag shell.”
It was a tribute to Joe’s power that, as he threw the shell to the floor, no single ma
n stooped to verify it. Dead Card John jumped away from the fireplace, reaching for his armpit. “Stop that!” warned Joe, and put himself between the man and Ames. Ames dropped the rifle; his arm fell to his gun and ripped upward. The crowd stood rooted, failing to catch the speed of the play. But Joe was smiling in the face of the sheriff’s revolver; smiling with his lips pressed together and his blue eyes flickering queerly. He had matched the sheriff’s draw. So they stood, deadlocked and a bare three yards apart. Ames had taken a step backward, putting himself clear of the crowd.
“Yuh been wantin’ action, stranger,” he shouted. “Now come and get it! Terese ain’t big enough for you and me. Yuh lie about that shell. I never was near Trago’s shanty that day.”
“Another lie!” broke in Dead Card John coldly.
“I been wantin’ to know what the state o’ yore nerve was,” mused Joe. “Ever since I saw you in the saloon, I been wantin’ to know it. Ames, yo’re yella. Go on and pull the trigger. Take a chance. Stand up there—don’t get a kink in yore back!”
“It’s yore last play,” muttered Ames. His grotesque face was warped, the chin so far forward that the upper lip dropped down upon the nether teeth. Sweat trickled down the fat curve of his cheeks and made a glistening pool in the blue stubble on his chin.
“What’s the matter with yore back? Starch all gone out of it? I’m countin’ five, Ames. If yore gun don’t drop by then—one, and two, and three—”
Ames’s arm fell swiftly. A weird and strangled yell left his throat; turning, he clawed for the door. At that the crowd broke and in the ensuing jam Joe saw the sheriff go down. He holstered his weapon, sighing as if he were tired.
“I wasn’t so doggoned sure about him bein’ yellow,” he murmured. “But he’ll hang.”
Bristow came down the stairway with Ray Chasteen. And when Joe saw her looking toward Dead Card John, he retreated into the dining-room, pulling Indigo after him. “What’s matter now?” grumbled the small partner.
Joe shook his head, taking a final glance at the scene. The girl ran across the room and threw her arms around Dead Card John; and he heard her say, “Dad!” He shook his head, swearing softly at his weakness, and when he looked again he found Dead Card John nothing more than a man after all. Dead Card John was crying.
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 47