by E. R. Slade
“Well, Stevens?” he demanded. He had a kind of high, pinched voice, like his belt was too tight and pushing his innards up his throat.
The other fellow had come in just behind the fat man and he was now watching everybody in the room, looking at one after the other, round and round, with eyes impersonal as two black pebbles.
“A chair for Mr. Courtland,” Stevens said sharply, and men went scurrying. The two men who had been sharpening knives now stopped. Everybody was quiet, watching Courtland. Jeremy was starting to sweat again, a cold sweat this time.
The men came back, one of them carrying a chair, which he set down a few feet to the left of the table in such a manner that Courtland would be facing the prisoners. Courtland sat in the chair without saying anything or seeming to take any notice that people had put out effort to make him comfortable. He was looking straight at Leanda.
“Well, Stevens?” he said again.
Stevens nodded and turned to the table which held his black bag. He reached into it and brought out a small leather-handled object. He pulled a leather cover off the other end and revealed a tiny shining blade, like a toothpick, only sharpened to a needle point.
Stevens turned to look at Courtland with raised eyebrows. Courtland, sitting with folded arms, nodded, his flat dead eyes managing to look interested, even eager. He leaned forward in his chair. Stevens stepped around the table with the smooth purposeful precision of the practiced hangman about his duty. He squatted beside Leanda.
“No!” Leanda said, sharp and breathless. She had made fists of her hands down at her sides.
Stevens forced a finger out, white and trembling, and placed the point of his toothpick knife under the nail. He smiled slightly, and everybody’s eyes were riveted on the finger, including Leanda’s wide frightened ones. She was trying to withdraw the finger, but Stevens had good hold of it.
Leanda screamed, the sound rising to an ear-hurting pitch, then breaking off. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
Stevens looked into her face, a professional appraisal. He had withdrawn the little toothpick knife; blood collected at the tip and dropped off.
Jeremy’s lips were dry. He closed his eyes a moment, praying that something, anything, would happen to stop this. Whatever Leanda might have done, torture didn’t seem to him to be called for. When he opened his eyes again, there was Courtland leaning far forward, perched on the front of his chair, looking eagerly at Leanda.
What a filthy bunch of characters, Jeremy thought in disgust. Torturing a helpless woman—even a woman like Leanda—lowered a man below a whipped dog.
Stevens looked around at Courtland and raised an eyebrow. Courtland drew in a sudden wheezy breath, licked his lips and then sat back a bit.
He held up a soft white hand. “Just a moment. Miss Dupree, do you care to say anything? You are quite aware of what I wish to know, I’m sure.”
Leanda’s hand was a fist again, and there was a trickle of blood down onto her knuckles. She narrowed her eyes at Courtland, and her grit and contempt for him made Jeremy proud of her. She said: “You won’t find out anything from me. Not one god damned thing.”
It appeared that these tough men were shocked to hear a lady swear, since almost to a man they reacted one way or another. Courtland had the biggest reaction. His head jerked back as if he had been slapped in the face. Then his eyes widened and his face grew red and his double chin quivered.
“Pull all her nails right out,” he exploded at Stevens.
Stevens, silent as a cat, stood up, took the two steps to the table, carefully wiped the toothpick knife clean on a white cloth from the black bag, and replaced the leather sheath to protect the point. He then laid the instrument aside and reached again into the bag, while Jeremy sweated. Stevens pulled out a shiny pair of pliers, turned once again to Leanda.
Jeremy had already considered many times trying to stand up and break the chair, and had every time decided that there was no point, that all he could manage to do would be to make things worse for them. But now as Stevens again squatted beside Leanda, and he saw Leanda’s fist tighten, her face scrunch up ready against the pain, he decided to take action ...
Chapter Fourteen
“Somebody coming,” one of the men said into the silence.
Jeremy’s muscles, tight from collecting themselves for a leap up, froze that way, and he held his breath.
The look of relishing anticipation on Courtland’s face changed to anger. He struggled to his feet and went to a window.
“Watson,” said Stevens, now standing at a window himself, pliers still in hand.
“Thank God,” Leanda said under her breath.
“Prying tin-star,” Courtland said. Then he said, looking around at Stevens, “Get that stuff out of sight.”
Stevens stepped quickly to the table, tossed the pliers and the toothpick knife into the bag, left the room with it. At a look from Courtland two men removed the table to a corner. Stevens came back without the black bag. It struck Jeremy that Stevens wasn’t convinced these precautions were needed. He had the attitude of somebody obeying an order he didn’t put much stock in.
Jeremy saw Watson jogging his horse easily down the long hill toward the ranch buildings. He seemed in no particular hurry.
“Cut them loose,” Courtland said, irritably. “But don’t let them get away. Be ready to shoot to kill, but don’t make it look like it.”
The ropes were cut and gotten rid of in the next room. The chairs were set back against the wall out of the way. They all stood around waiting for the sheriff of Parkersville to arrive, Jeremy trying to rub some circulation into his arms and hatching escape plans faster than a manure pile hatching flies on a hot spring day.
Watson rode casually into the yard, looked this way and that, pulled the stalk of grass from the corner of his mouth and tossed it on the ground. Then he swung down, looped the reins of his horse over the weathered hitch rail.
When he knocked, Courtland nodded at Stevens, who went on silent tread to open the door.
“Afternoon,” said the sheriff. He and Stevens eyed each other. Watson’s expression was as impassive as the blank headwall of a box canyon; Stevens had on his dead Indian look.
“Brings you out here, Sheriff,” Stevens asked, low and calm like a man calling out another after about ten years of feuding.
“Seen hoss tracks. Figured I’d best find out what’s going on here to the old Rollins place. Ain’t been any folks living on this spread for five years or more.”
“That so.”
“You took up residence?”
“No. Just here for the night. Be gone tomorrow.”
“Reckon I’ll come in and see if everything’s all right.”
“Everything’s fine,” Stevens said, meeting Watson’s eyes squarely.
“Maybe ’tis and maybe ’tain’t. Reckon I’ll just look in.”
“No need of it,” Stevens said, not moving out of the way.
Watson made to come in. “Reckon I’ll see that for myself.”
Stevens still didn’t move. Watson’s brow darkened. “Interfering with an officer of the law is a hanging offense in my town.”
“This ain’t your town,” Stevens said.
“My territory.” This time when he stepped forward he kept on coming. Stevens started to shoulder him back and then changed his mind and let him by—Watson was a very big man.
Watson hulked in, tracking dust.
“Why,” he said, looking at Jeremy, “I reckon that’s one of my prisoners.” His eye roamed the room. “In fact,” he continued, “I see three of my prisoners here. Reckon I’ll be taking custody of them all.”
“I reckon you won’t be,” Stevens said.
There was a clatter of cocking pistols in the silent room, but Watson’s big Whitneyville Walker was by then aimed at Courtland’s midsection. There was a tense moment while all looked to Courtland for direction.
When Courtland just stared at the pistol, Watson said, as casual a
s if he were talking old politics on a lazy summer Sunday afternoon, “Anybody interferes, I drop the fat man first.”
Courtland started to sputter, but what finally came out was, “Let the man have his prisoners.”
There was a stir amongst the men; Steven’s jaw muscles bulged. Watson gathered his prisoners to one side of the door under a blaze of steely hatred.
He said, “Everybody out but the fat man. Saddle all the hosses and get on yours. Anything I don’t care for happens, I drop the fat man.”
This was done, with an attitude of restrained fury.
Courtland fidgeted nervously. It was a funny thing, but he hadn’t really looked like much since he got off his horse. His dignity was all in his clothes. He was just a fat, peevish, stupid, bad loser who liked to take out his troubles on helpless women. He was not a man whose possible claim to the wagonload of gold Jeremy felt inclined to worry over.
When the hardcases were all aboard their horses, and the other horses were standing saddled at the hitch rail, Watson motioned Courtland out. Courtland went, puffing and red-faced, with a last unreadable look at Watson.
“Ride,” Watson said. “And not into my town. I see any of you there, I’ll arrest you on sight. Got that?”
None of the men said anything. Courtland spun his mount and rode away, and the others followed, looking mean. The only one who was different was the gunslinger. He smiled thinly at Watson, a superior sort of smile, like he knew Watson’s gun wasn’t loaded and anticipated fun at the point when Watson found it out.
Stevens swung close to Watson and pulled up for a moment to give him a steady glare of silent challenge before spurring on after the others. A feud had begun there, for sure. Best not to be in the way when those two had it out.
Watson let them get out of sight to the south down the valley. There wasn’t a lot of day left. They’d probably find a good spot and make camp, parley on what to do next.
“Let’s go,” Watson said. By now he had them on their horses, hands tied, and the horses spaced along a lariat, with two turns of the end of the lariat around his saddle horn.
“What’re you arresting us for?” Leanda asked Watson.
“Helping a prisoner escape.”
“What do you mean, escape? We were too busy trying to escape, Uncle Ham, and I, to go helping anybody else escape.”
She made it sound pretty convincingly bewildered, and Jeremy was almost convinced himself.
But the sheriff said, “Don’t bother to play dumb with me. I got a look at the tracks around back of the jail. They match up pretty good with the ones your hosses is making now.”
“But these aren’t our horses,” Leanda said.
“I don’t doubt that,” Watson said dryly.
“You don’t understand. These are some of Courtland’s horses. He put us on them, since we didn’t have ours anymore. That’s how he caught us you see. We were on foot.”
“And he just happened to be leading three extra mounts around the countryside. I know your game, no point trying to fool me. Tell me about Courtland.”
“I don’t know anything about him except I don’t want to meet up with him again,” Leanda said.
Jeremy was getting an education about Leanda. She lied so well that even if you knew the truth you had to make a special effort to remember it.
“Where’s he from?” Watson was asking.
“I don’t know.”
“What’d he want with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That don’t hardly seem likely. Now suppose you try again.”
“I really don’t know. They started threatening, saying we knew what it was they wanted, and that if we didn’t tell them, they’d start by pulling out my fingernails. That’s what they were about to do when you showed up. They already stuck a little knife under one of my nails, and let me tell you, it hurt.” She held it up to show him. “They put all the tools in the back room, along with the ropes they had us tied up with. You came just in time. I’m sure grateful to you for that.” She paused, then said, “But it’s really true about the horses. They had them with them.”
And all just as helpless sounding and honest as if it was really true and she could see how it must look from the sheriff’s point of view but couldn’t do anything about the truth, no matter how strange it sounded. She was slick as calves’ slobbers, there was no question about it.
But Jeremy knew it wasn’t going to work on Watson because Watson was after the gold.
They rode into town about dark. Leanda had finally given up trying to convince Watson she and Cork were innocent and as ignorant as greenhorn dudes. Left on their own, Jeremy’s thoughts drifted off into dull contemplation of what a tiresome long day it had been.
There was gunfire somewhere at the far end of town, and loud yelling, but it was hard to make out what was being said. One man would holler something, another would holler something back, and then there’d be the cracking of pistols and what was probably swearing, once a scream of pain. There was the usual tinkling of out-of-tune pianos, and laughter and the clump of dancing on flimsy wooden floors.
Watson locked them up without ceremony, Cork and Jeremy in one cell, Leanda in another, and went off to deal with the gunfight. There was only one board in the cell Jeremy and Cork were in, too narrow for both of them, and they weren’t given any bedding. Neither cell was the one from which Jeremy had been rescued. The escape hole was still open.
In the next cell, Leanda lay back on her board.
“Just like the International Hotel,” she muttered.
Jeremy and Cork looked at each other. “Flip a coin for it?” Jeremy offered. “If you’ve got a coin.”
“You’d make an old man sleep on the floor?” Cork said. “A poor old man with brittle bones and no meat on him?”
“Flip for it, Uncle Ham,” Leanda said irritably. “Don’t listen to his mush, Jeremy. He can sleep on the floor just as easily as you can.”
Cork hee-heed and reached for his bottle.
“Save some of that,” Jeremy said. “I got an idea how to get out of here.”
“What idea’s that?” Leanda asked.
“Watson is after the gold—and no, not because I told him anything. Cork here lets on to be willing to spill the beans, and offers Watson a drink of that firewater. While it’s peeling the skin out of his throat, Cork takes his gun.”
“Jeremy, that’s pretty smart,” Leanda said. “It might even work. What do you think, Uncle Ham?”
“I think you’re bad mouthin’ my corn liquor, but I’ll try it, if there’s any left.”
“There’d better be,” Leanda said warningly.
“So what about my old bones?” Cork asked.
“If your bones are brittle,” said Jeremy, “you won’t like the board much better than the stone floor, but you take it anyway. I’m so tired I could sleep sitting on top of a cactus, most likely.”
Leanda snorted. Cork took to the board before Jeremy could change his mind.
Chapter Fifteen
“I’m hungry,” Leanda said. “Don’t we get anything to eat?”
Jeremy had been looking around the stone floor in hopes of discovering the least uncomfortable spot to sleep on. Now he paused, a vivid recollection of Sarah Hooper’s prettily rounded form filling his thoughts.
“Jeremy?”
“What?”
“I said, don’t we get fed?”
“Sure.”
“What’re you smiling about?”
“Nothing much.”
He sat down against the rear wall and imagined how Sarah looked coming with a tray of food. She sure was a nice, fine-looking little girl, if only she’d let up some on the Bible and so forth. But she was the gentle sort—not like Leanda—and hadn’t had too much experience out here, and she’d probably been taught that the Bible had all the answers, and so she turned to it whenever there was trouble. It wasn’t so bad, really, only he just never took too much to reading and didn’t mostly see ho
w the Bible could do much for his problems; although Pa kept a Bible on his bedside table, and read in it sometimes, too. But Sarah sure had the right way about her somehow. Course she’d probably say she was ashamed of him for escaping, but she would still be scared that Watson was going to have to hang him one day not too far off. Would she watch, if that happened? He thought she might make herself. It would be a cruel thing for such a tender blossom as she was, and yet somehow he thought she had the grit for it.
“What are you smilin’ about, buffalo chip?” Cork asked him. He sounded a bit drunk.
Jeremy got up and took a look at the bottle. It was getting way down. With a sudden quick motion, before Cork could react, Jeremy yanked it away. He went to the bars separating the cell from Leanda’s.
“Better keep this until tomorrow morning,” he said.
Cork rolled off the board onto his feet, sputtering, “Hey! Wha’ the ’ell you doin’?” and stumbled trying to cross the uneven stones. He fell flat on his face and remained there until well after Leanda had gotten up from her board bed, removed the bottle to the far side of her cell, and had lain back down again. Then he got unsteadily to his feet and squinted around. “What’d’ou do that fer? Ain’t fair, stealing away an old man’s comfort.”
“You’ll be a lot less comfortable dangling at the end of a rope,” Jeremy said. “Tomorrow morning you and Watson can finish it up.”
“It ain’t fair. Give it here, Leanda, honey. You know how your poor old uncle depends on his medicinal. I got all these aches and pains and that’s the only stuff cures ’em.”
“Crap,” Leanda said flatly.
And at that point, in walked Watson and Sarah Hooper, each carrying a steaming hot tray of food.
Jeremy’s face lit into a broad smile and, ignoring the close observation of this by Leanda, he said, “Why, Miss Hooper!”
She looked him square in the face, after a moment of darting her eyes away, and Jeremy felt like he’d fallen off the barn roof. His palms began to sweat, and his head commenced to swim. She smiled, and looked down, hard, at the stuff on the tray she was carrying. Watson, balancing his tray in one hand, came and unlocked the door of Leanda’s cell, passed the tray in, and then locked that cell and unlocked the one Jeremy and Cork were in. Cork was braced up against the bars separating their cell from Leanda’s, trying to look sober. Jeremy stepped forward to take the tray from Sarah.