The E.R. Slade Western Omnibus No.1

by E. R. Slade

“I heard. You’re not really going to see Mr. Clauson, are you?” Nancy was very anxious about that idea.

  “Sooner or later, perhaps. But we have to find someplace where we can rest a little and think things out. Who would take you in without Clauson thinking they might?”

  “The Ryans might let me stay with them—unless they’re too scared to risk it.”

  “Where are the Ryans?”

  “Three doors from my house. We would have to cross the street.”

  “How would they react to a knock on the back door?”

  “I don’t know. I think Mary—that’s the daughter—would help me, but her mother would probably be terrified, which might make her father say no.”

  “Doesn’t sound too promising. Who else can you think of? On this side of the street?”

  “I really can’t think of anybody.”

  “What about—what was his name?—Sikes? The other liveryman.”

  “I don’t know them, though I know who they are. He’s pretty old and lame, I think. His wife is nice, but she seems kind of frail. I don’t know if it would be fair to ask them, especially where they don’t know me.”

  “Let’s go across the tracks into the woods over there and circle the town as much under cover as we can and try the Ryans. If that doesn’t work, we’ll have to do something else.”

  It took them an hour and a half to make the circuit in the surrounding woods, and by then it was well after noon. Before going to see the Ryans, they decided to try to find something to eat in Nancy’s house and put together supplies for their escape.

  The place was as they had left it, and nobody around. They quickly gathered up as much as they thought they could conveniently pack onto their horses, estimating that they ought to be able to last over two weeks on it if they had to. There was an unused doghouse in the rear yard and they put it all in there, covered with an old blanket. They piled some rusted-out junk tinware and broken bottles and other trash on top to make it look unlikely anything of any value would be underneath.

  Then they went back inside and righted the living room table and two chairs and sat down to eat dried apples, the only palatable thing they could find that would not require lighting a fire and advertising their presence in the house. From where they sat they could watch the street in both directions.

  “Did your father have any guns?” he asked.

  She pointed at an empty gun cabinet on the wall with the glass smashed out.

  “They got them all.”

  “No chance he kept a gun under his mattress or somewhere else in the house? Or maybe in the shed? In the circumstances, I think I would have.”

  “My father could shoot, but guns weren’t really something he was too fond of. The reason he had so many in the gun case was that he inherited them when his brother died. Uncle Alvah did a lot of hunting and liked to collect guns.”

  “I’ve got to get hold of a rifle, if I possibly can. Puts me at a disadvantage if I only have my old Remington. Clauson’s dangerous enough without my being unable to return any long range fire from him.”

  “We can look,” she said doubtfully.

  They did, and as she thought, there were no guns to be found in the house or shed in any obvious place.

  Back at the living room table, eating some more apples and both of them wishing for something hot, they discussed what ought to be done next.

  “Here’s how I see it,” Ben said. “We can either steal our horses back and make a run for the next town, or we can stay here somewhere, hidden, while I try to find a way to get rid of him. Clauson has to figure he’s got us cornered and can take his time and play cat and mouse with us. He figures we aren’t going to get far on foot and will know enough not to try. But if we take the horses, he’ll know in ten minutes because that liveryman will run to find him the moment we’re out of there.

  “I suppose I could tie up that fellow, which would give us a little more time, but sooner or later—and not much later, either—Clauson will be on our tail. We won’t be that fast, loaded with supplies, and it’ll come down to a gun battle.

  “If we stay, and leave the horses where they are, Clauson will remain confident and we’ll get more time. What I’d like to do with that time is talk to the town councilors, try to get them to agree that Clauson has to go. If we can get some other people with us, we’ll stand a better chance.”

  “Maybe, but it will not happen. The Council talked that over after Mr. Clauson first arrived and voted unanimously not to interfere with him.”

  “I’d like to think if they knew what has happened to you they might change their minds.”

  “I can’t imagine it.”

  “I will have to be persuasive, then. Anyhow, it’s the best thing I can think of to try. We’ve got to do something.”

  “Couldn’t we make it hard for him to follow us?”

  “You mean, try to confuse our back trail? The best way I know to do that needs a long run of shallow stream to ride up or down, and it takes time. If we had a day or two head start on him, it might work, but not otherwise.”

  “There’s Kid Clauson,” she said tensely, pointing.

  And here he came along the board sidewalk, all swagger and pride, hat pulled down low, as though he expected to have to outdraw somebody any minute.

  “Quick,” Ben said. And they turned the table back on its side and also the chairs in as near an approximation of the way they’d found them as possible.

  Kid Clauson was right out front by now, pausing, looking at the house.

  They slipped quietly out the back door, hearing the front door open.

  “Ryans?” he whispered, and she pointed.

  They hurried along making as little noise as they could to a freshly-painted back door where Nancy knocked.

  Ben had his hand on his Remington, keeping his eyes on the rear of Nancy’s house.

  There was no response to their knock; Nancy knocked louder. “Come on,” she murmured. “You’ve got to hear me.”

  Ben realized his jaw was clamped shut so hard his teeth grated. He made an effort to relax. They said Kid Clauson seldom hit what he aimed at. He’d have to get pretty close before he could do much damage. So far he wasn’t even in sight.

  Nancy knocked again, then grabbed the handle and turned it. The door opened.

  They went in just as the rear door of Nancy’s house started to open.

  They were in a little room with a cleanly swept floor of plain boards, firewood stacked neatly to the left against the wall, an old coat and hat hung on hooks to the right, and another freshly-painted door right ahead of them.

  Ben had pulled the outside door closed after himself, and looked for a lock, which didn’t exist.

  They heard the low mumble of voices from somewhere in the house, which turned into surprised-sounding murmurs and footsteps at Nancy’s knock on the inner door, and shortly it opened.

  Ben remembered his hat and took it off with his left hand so as to leave his gun hand free.

  A very pretty girl of about sixteen or seventeen with a sweet face and large expressive eyes stood there in a calico dress with an apron over, her hands covered with flour.

  Her eyes widened when she saw Nancy and she broke out in a beautiful but anxious smile, starting toward her impulsively, holding out her hands; then she remembered they were covered with flour and stopped to wipe them on her apron.

  “Oh, Nancy,” she said, “I’ve been so worried about you! Are you all right?” Hands wiped, she embraced her friend, and afterwards suddenly pulled back and looked at her even more anxiously. “What’s happened? There’s something more, isn’t there.”

  “Who is it, Mary?” came a voice from somewhere out of sight behind the girl.

  “It’s Nancy!” she said. “Come in and tell us what’s been going on.”

  Now she glanced uncertainly at Ben, down at his gun, then into his eyes. Perhaps reassured, she gave him a hesitant smile before turning to lead the way in.

  There was a windo
w behind them which Ben had been keeping an eye out. But from where he was he could see only a small patch of ground. He stepped nearer and took a real look. Though he couldn’t see into Nancy’s back yard quite as far as the doghouse, he could still see most of the area between this house and hers and was relieved that Kid Clauson wasn’t visible—though it didn’t prove he wasn’t coming along the rears of the buildings just out of sight.

  A woman with the same dark hair and large expressive eyes that the girl had, but with an older, more careworn face, stood at a wood range stirring something that smelled wonderful. Some kind of stew, Ben thought, and the dried apples suddenly seemed a poor excuse for real food, however much he might like them.

  The older woman was agitated, and looked at Nancy with far more anxiety than the girl had, though not with unfriendliness.

  When she saw Ben her eyes went to the gun and she stopped stirring and turned to face them, putting both hands to her throat.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ryan,” Nancy said. “I’m sorry to barge in this way. This is Mr. Gordon. He’s very kindly offered to help me.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gordon,” the older woman said, eyeing him with apprehension.

  “Miss Bailey needs a safe place to stay,” Ben said. “Her house was broken into and I told her I thought it might be safer for her if she stays with friends for a few days until it’s clear who did it and why.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Ryan said, now clasping her hands together. Her knuckles were white.

  “Oh,” Mary said impulsively. “You must stay with us, of course, mustn’t she, Mama?”

  “Of course,” her mother said distractedly. Ben wondered if he should try to find Nancy somewhere else to go, seeing how frightened poor Mrs. Ryan was. How fair was it to saddle these innocent people with the kind of risk taking Nancy in could entail? Kid Clauson might come in the back door any minute, in fact, though the odds should be against it.

  From where Ben stood he could see through a front room and a window onto the street where occasionally someone went by on the sidewalk just outside. So far no Kid Clauson, no Ike Clauson.

  “What are you looking for?” Mary asked him suddenly, her eyes getting wider, which made her even prettier than normal, though Ben was only vaguely aware of it.

  “What? Oh.” His conscience was bothering him too much to keep quiet. But, how much should he say? “Before you decide whether to take Nancy in, it’s only fair to tell you that there are risks,” he said. “Ike Clauson ...”

  “You mean the marshal?” Mrs. Ryan asked in a slightly strangled voice.

  “Yes. He has impounded Nancy’s money that should be hers from her father—I assume you know about the murder?”

  “Yes,” she said, barely audibly, “we know.”

  “He has taken over the business and even impounded her horse and told her not to leave town. We don’t know why, but I’m not too sure how honorable his intentions are. In addition, valuables were stolen from Nancy’s house, and we think Ike’s brother, the one they call Kid Clauson, may have been the thief.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Ryan said, and looked around as though for somewhere to sit down, though she didn’t go over to the little kitchen table where there were three chairs.

  Mary was looking back and forth from her friend Nancy to Ben, emotions flowing in waves across her face. Then she turned earnestly to her mother. “It’s just like Papa says. Those Clausons are bad men and should be driven out of town. Of course you must stay with us,” she said to Nancy emphatically, and to her mother, “She must, mustn’t she?”

  Just at that moment Kid Clauson went past the window on the sidewalk. He didn’t look in.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Ryan demanded, pale, watching Ben as though he were a ghost.

  “It’s all right,” Ben said. “That was the Kid going by. He was just in Miss Bailey’s house, but I doubt he suspects we were there and left to avoid to him.” Ben omitted mentioning that the kid was tipping up a bottle of cheap whiskey as he passed the window. “Is your husband here, Mrs. Ryan?” he asked.

  “He should be any minute,” she said, suddenly coming to herself and looking again at her stew. “Mary ...”

  “I know, Mama,” she said, and went to a counter where dough was divided ready to put into bread pans.

  “I don’t have to stay here,” Nancy said uncomfortably. “Maybe it wouldn’t be fair to bring my troubles into your house, and I don’t know how to go about leaving them outside. Mr. Gordon, do you think ...?”

  Ben guessed she, too, had seen Kid Clauson pass the window with his bottle tipped up and she didn’t want to inflict him on her friends. And maybe she was right.

  “Mrs. Ryan,” he said, “I can see you’re worried, and I think you may have good reason to worry about the risks of taking Nancy in. Neither Nancy nor I wants to cause any of you any trouble. But Nancy needs some help and if you can think of somewhere she can go and be safe for a while, you’ll be doing her a good turn.”

  “I think she should stay here,” Mary said resolutely, “and you can, too, Mr. Gordon,” she added with a somewhat enigmatic smile for him. Having shaped a loaf with expert hands and plopped it into one of the pans, she came to him and took his hat, hung it on a rack on the wall beside the stove.

  “Maybe we should ask your father what he thinks,” her mother replied, watching the hanging up of the hat unhappily.

  Gilbert Ryan arrived less than five minutes later. He was a big, solid man whose woolen pants and coat were stuck full of bits of bark, sawdust, and sap, of which he smelled very pleasantly. Before he arrived, his wife had explained that they were eating so late today because he had had to take a load of lumber some miles out of town to a place where a house was being built. He shook hands with Ben heartily and Ben realized this was the first man he’d met in Taylorville that he had taken an instant liking to. And by all appearances, the feeling was mutual.

  Ryan was also solicitous of Nancy, asking how she was holding up and telling her if there was anything they could do for her, just ask. This while his wife looked on hollow-eyed.

  “Nancy has to stay here,” his daughter said. “The Clausons have taken away everything her father had and we don’t know what they want to do to her!” It came out rather melodramatically, and her father’s eyebrows went up.

  He turned to Nancy. “What’s this all about?”

  She briefly explained, and Ben added that she needed a safe place to stay for a few days, and did he know of anywhere?

  “Those Clauson’s,” he said darkly, his good humor gone.

  By now they were sitting around the kitchen table, a couple of extra chairs having been fetched from the parlor. Mrs. Ryan put out bowls for all of them, and ladled stew. The bread wouldn’t be out of the oven for another twenty minutes, she said, but they might as well go ahead.

  “I think they should stay here,” Mary said to her father. “We have two extra rooms.”

  Ryan glanced at his wife. She was looking into her bowl of stew, moving bits of it around with her spoon.

  “I guess that would be up to Mother,” he said, and sampled the stew.

  Despite everything, Ben was hungry and lit into the meal as though he hadn’t eaten in a week and a half. It seemed he was the only one with much of an appetite, however. Nancy hadn’t even picked up her spoon. Mary was too engrossed in the drama going on to take much interest in food. Ryan ate, but slowly and as though he didn’t notice what his food tasted like.

  Mrs. Ryan did not seem ready to say anything. After a few moments, Nancy began deliberately to eat. She said, “The stew is wonderful. You can’t imagine how good it is to have a real meal after all that has gone on.” Then she added, “Don’t worry about me. Mr. Gordon has a couple of other ideas.” She gave Ben a sideways look to make sure he hadn’t missed his cue.

  He was about to speak when Mary burst out suddenly, “Really, Mama, how can you even think about not taking them in? Nancy is my best friend!”

  Mrs. Ryan looked for suppor
t to her husband, who stopped eating to regard her with concern. He said, “Mother, it seems to me it wouldn’t be Christian to turn them out.”

  “Of course, you’re right, dear,” she said, with a ghastly smile.

  And at that moment somewhere in the street outside there was gunfire.

  Chapter Six

  Ben’s reaction was to jump up and go to the front window.

  Kid Clauson, reeling drunk, was firing his pistols randomly at Nancy’s house. He hit windows sometimes because Ben could faintly hear the tinkling of broken glass.

  He had a great urge to go out and confront him, but knew it would not be a smart move for several good reasons, one of which was that it would reveal his connection to the Ryans and put them in danger.

  The Kid emptied his guns and then went on down the board sidewalk out of sight.

  When Ben came back, Nancy was white as a sheet with her fists pressed against her breast. Ryan had his wife in his arms over near the stove, and her face was in her hands. Mary looked to Ben as though counting on him for answers.

  “Kid Clauson’s drunk,” Ben said. “He’s wandered off now with empty guns.”

  He came and sat down next to Nancy, aware of Mary’s large eyes on him. Nancy put her hands in her lap and drew a long, shaky breath, smiled wanly. “I’m getting a little jumpy,” she said. Ben reached over and laid a hand on one of hers in an attempt to be reassuring.

  Nancy turned her hand over and clasped his, and for a moment he thought she might dissolve in tears. But instead she sat straighter and said in a strong voice, “Thank you so much for the stew. Mr. Gordon, do you think perhaps we should be going?”

  Ryan had helped his wife to her chair and sat back down himself. She couldn’t have looked worse if the Kid’s bullets had whistled past her ear, but she said, “You have hardly touched your stew. And even Mr. Gordon hasn’t finished his. And I’ll bet he would like seconds.” She made a supreme effort to produce the sort of knowing smile women reserve for such circumstances. “Mary can show you your rooms later.”

  “Mother worries a lot about the Clausons,” Ryan said. “But we are in no more danger with you here than if you aren’t—so long as you’re careful about coming and going. In fact, if Ben knows anything about using that gun, we’re safer.”