by John Glasby
There had been something a little more definite than mere suspicion in the way the other had acted too, when they had met. It was almost, he decided, as if the other had, for some reason, decided to be openly antagonistic towards him.
Building himself a smoke, he lit the cigarette, sat back in his chair, and smoked it slowly. He had been tired when he had ridden into town. Now he felt alive, better. Shrewd lines appeared around the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes as he sat there and contemplated the few diners at the other tables.
When he had finished, he went along to the stables, checked on his horse, and then made his way slowly along the street, past the lighted windows, until he came to the house he was seeking. Pausing in front of the door, he stared off in both directions along the quiet street, then rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles.
It opened a moment later, and Wayne Thorpe stood there in the opening, peering out at him. For a moment, there was no recognition on the lawyer’s face. Then his expression cleared, he thrust out a hand, grasped Garth’s tightly, shook it, then motioned him inside, closing the door softly behind him.
‘Garth! It’s good to see you again. I half thought you didn’t get my message.’
‘Got it eight days ago.’ Garth followed the other into the parlour where a lamp was burning yellowly on the table. There were wooden shutters across the windows, battened down with a stout crosspiece. ‘Came here as soon as I could. I gathered from your letter that the matter was urgent, but you didn’t say what it was.’
Thorpe nodded his head quickly, went over to the cupboard, came back with a bottle and two glasses. Pouring out the drinks, he handed one glass to Garth, then seated himself in the other chair, his serious face etched with shadows.
‘I couldn’t trust this matter to the telegraph.’ He sipped his drink slowly, thoughtfully. ‘I tried to make it sound as urgent as possible without actually mentioning the position, in order to whet your appetite sufficiently to get you here when I could explain things in full. When did you arrive in town?’
‘A couple of hours ago.’ Garth leaned back. The whiskey tasted good on his palate. ‘I ran into a little trouble on the way here. Bushwhackers trying to shoot up an old man and his daughter.’
The other gave a quick, brief nod. ‘Clem Glynn and Rosarie. I heard about that a little while ago. It’s just something more to add to what has happened these past few weeks. When it became obvious that Jessup, the sheriff, didn’t intend to do anything about it, I decided that we needed help from outside. That was why I sent for you.’
‘But why me?’
‘You were the only man I could think of who might be able to help us. After all, since you smashed that outlaw gang operating down near the Texas border, I figured that you had the experience for dirty work like this. I won’t hide from you the fact that it is dirty work. Nobody knows where these killers came from. They just sprang up from nowhere. They held up the stage I was on and killed the guard, got away with the strongbox containing about five thousand dollars worth of gold bullion. They shot me in the arm, laid me up for a week or so. Doc Wheeler reckons I was lucky to be alive.’
‘Have you got any idea where they may be hidin’ out?’
‘In the hills probably. You came through them on your way here, just on the edge of the desert. They’re wide enough and long enough to hide a hundred outlaws and full of trails that nobody knows. A man could lose himself in there and it would take an army to find him.’ He paused, filled their glasses once more, then went on: ‘This was a decent town only a little while ago, Garth. I know that it’s hard to believe that now. In fact, it’s hard to believe it ever was safe for decent citizens to live in. Now we’ve got this blight in the territory. It’s like some disease that has to be cut out before it gets a chance to spread.’
‘From what I’ve already been able to learn, it seems that it’s gettin’ too late for that. When they can ride into a town in broad daylight and rob the bank or one of the stores, then it isn’t going to be easy to smash them.’
‘I know. That’s one of the main reasons why I sent for you. You’ve got to help us. I know of no one else.’
Garth could not help noticing the plea in the other’s tone. He searched for his tobacco, rolled himself another smoke, struck and cupped the match to his face and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He said slowly: ‘Somehow, I’ve got the feeling that Jessup isn’t goin’ to like me diggin’ into things. He made it plain when we met that he didn’t like me for some reason.’
Thorpe sat back in his chair, regarded Garth seriously. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about Jessup. He’s all talk, but he does nothing. But I would advise you to move easy around town. All strangers coming in here are watched, and watched closely. A man might be in league with the outlaws, in town to get information for another raid. This is one hell of a town now, Garth. Every time I walk down that street out yonder, I get to wondering just when everything is going to bust wide open and blow this place apart. It’s like sitting on top of a goddamned powder keg with the slow fuse lit, not knowing when it’s going to go off and blow us all to perdition.’
‘I’ll take care and walk easy.’ Garth set down his glass on the table nearby. ‘But don’t tell Jessup who I am. It might be better if nobody but you know about me. As far as the rest of the town is concerned, I’m just another drifter riding through.’
Thorpe considered that for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘If that’s the way you want to play it, then naturally I’ll do as you say. But I think it only fair to warn you that you might find nothing but open hostility on the part of the townsfolk here. You might not find it easy to get information from them.’
‘That’s a risk I’ll take,’ Garth said evenly.
‘You’re sure you want to take it?’ said the other, brows drawn together in a straight line.
‘That doesn’t seem to be the question. It’s a risk which has to be taken, I’m sure of that.’
‘All right. If there is any way in which I can help, then I’ll be only too willing to do so. I’m not much good with a gun now, but I reckon I can — ’
‘I won’t need you to back me with gunplay, Wayne,’ Garth said seriously. ‘Rest assured about that. But if it comes to a showdown with the sheriff. I’d like to know that I’ve got you at the back of me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll back you there,’ affirmed the other. He lifted the whiskey bottle again, but Garth shook his head. ‘I reckon I’ll take a look around this town while it’s dark,’ he said quietly, getting to his feet.
‘Be careful. A bullet could come from any unlighted corner,’ warned the other. ‘I’ve seen it happen so many times in my life.’ He stood at the door and watched the other walk out into the boardwalk and then stride off into the night.
Chapter Five: Gunsight
With each ugly outline of the town buildings just visible in the gloom, Garth eyed the lights that showed through the windows on either side of the main street, then crossed through the burnished dust to the far side of the street. There was a huge cottonwood growing in the middle of the square where two roads intersected and a wooden bench all the way around the bottom of the thick trunk. An earthen olla hung suspended from one of the branches and he upended it and drank all of the cool water he could, slaking the thirst that was now in him.
Seating himself on the bench, he waited in the cool darkness, thrusting his legs forth to their full length and from time to time, he turned his head slowly to peer in both directions along the streets that radiated away from this point. It came to him that a man could sit here and see almost everything that went on in the streets of Triple Peaks.
Five minutes after he had seated himself there, the door of the sheriff’s office opened, the burly figure of Sheriff Jessup appeared for a moment in the swathe of light, then the light went out, the door was locked and Jessup strode purposefully across the street and into the saloon on the opposite side. He did not look aside towards the man seated
on the bench.
Less than two minutes after the sheriff had vanished, a man came out of the saloon, peered around him cautiously for a long moment, then hurried away into the darkness. He carried something small and white in his hand. Leaning forward, Garth saw that the other had paused in front of the telegraph office. There was still a lamp burning there and Garth guessed that the night man was on duty. The man was lost to Garth’s gaze for less than five minutes, then he reappeared, trotted quickly back to the saloon and went inside. Garth rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The sequence of events he had just witnessed began to add up to something definite in his mind. It seemed evident that Jessup was unsure about him, wanted to know a lot more than he did already, so he had sent this man to send a wire. Maybe it had been to the sheriff in Culver City, asking if he had anything on a man who called himself Garth Martinue.
Had the other anything on his mind other than suspicions? For Garth was not a wanted man and there was no reason why Jessup should imagine he was. He rose slowly to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. Slowly too, he made his way along the boardwalk, heading for the saloon on the very edge of town, which he had noticed when he had ridden in with Rosarie Glynn. He kept his hands close to the guns at his waist as he walked, aware of the hollow sound of his boots on the plankwalk. This was a town where men could turn into his enemies on a single word from many men, where he was a stranger and all strangers were looked upon as potential outlaws. He could believe that it had been a good town once, maybe not so long before; but since this band of outlaws had begun operating from this part of the territory, no man felt safe; and it was easier to shoot first and ask questions later, than to keep a possible killer in their midst.
He paused as he came alongside the telegraph office, an idea forming in his mind. Acting on impulse, he opened the door and stepped inside. The operator sat in his tilted chair, his legs on the small table in front of him, the morse key at his back. He was reading the daily newspaper, looked up over the top if it as Garth entered.
‘Howdy, mister,’ he said genially. There was no suspicion on his face, just an open frankness that Garth liked at once. Here, he thought, was a man who could be trusted, but it might be that his honesty could make it difficult for Garth to get any information out of him.
‘Howdy. Jessup wants to know how long before you get an answer to that message?’
The other shrugged. ‘Jessup’s in one hell of a hurry,’ he replied. ‘I told Bill it would likely be near mornin’ before any answer came through. Where is Jessup now?’
‘Over at the saloon.’
‘That’s what I figured. Well, I reckon he ought to know then that Cantry, in Culver City, is probably in the same place and he won’t like it if somebody goes across to drag him out just to ask if some hombre happens to be a Texas Ranger. Not that Cantry is likely to know anyway.’ He grinned a little. ‘Still if Jessup wants to spend his money on fool questions that ain’t likely to be answered, that’s all right by me. I’ve just got a job to do.’
‘Thanks, I’ll tell him to wait until mornin’.’ Garth nodded, went outside again, walked slowly to the end of the street. The news had disturbed him a little. Had Jessup been wanting to know if he was a suspected outlaw, he would have given it no other thought. But why had the other thought he might be a Texas Ranger? He was getting just a little too close to the truth to be healthy.
One thing was clear; he would have to move carefully now, what with most of the townsfolk here thinking he might be an outlaw, and Sheriff Jessup believing him to be a Ranger. This made him smile. If word got out to the outlaws in the hills they would certainly take every desperate means they could to kill him; they had to; and he knew they could make deadly enemies.
Before going into the saloon, he made a slow-swinging search of the night, saw nothing suspicious, then pushed open the batwing doors with the flat of his hands and stepped through into the noise and the light and the bluehazed smoke of the saloon. It was more crowded than he had anticipated. In one corner, a small, ferret-faced man was playing a piano, evidently an instrument which had been newly imported into the town judging by the way many of the men were crowded around it. Then he noticed the woman who had walked down the stairs just before he had entered. She wore a brilliant red gown that matched the colour of her lips, and her face, which could have been soft once, now had a certain hardness to it that he recognized at once. A woman who had come out west, seeking a new life, some years back, and who had been swiftly disillusioned.
But when she began to sing, he forgot all of that. Her voice was low and warm, with a smoky quality that made everyone in the saloon quieten at once. She sang in a language he did not understand, which he guessed was French, but although he could not understand the words, the melody of the song was enough to conjure up a picture of a place where the skies were always blue, the sun warm and a woman’s love lasted for ever. Where there was no poverty, no sudden, violent death, and everything was peace.
He walked slowly to the bar, stood with his elbow resting on the low rail, caught the eye of the bartender and lifted a finger. The other paused, glanced back at the woman who sang by the piano, then came over, placing a bottle and glass in front of him. Garth kept his fingers curled around the neck of the bottle as the other moved to take it away.
Filling his glass, he sipped it slowly. His dark brows drew inward and downward as he turned his head to glance at the men in the saloon. They looked the usual assortment one found in a place such as this. A few nesters by the look of their clothes, one or two cattlemen, the rest townsfolk. At the moment, all of their attention was focused on the woman who sang. They had not noticed him in their midst.
The song ended. In spite of requests to sing another song, the woman withdrew, moved back up the winding stairway and vanished from sight at the top. A beefy looking man in a gaudy waistcoat and frock-coat climbed on to the small stage near the pianist and called loudly:
‘Rosie will be back in a little while, gentlemen. In the meantime, there are faro and poker games and plenty of whiskey to drink at the bar.’
Garth poured a second drink, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bartender, at the far end of the bar, lean forward and whisper something to a small knot of men standing there. As one man, their heads turned in his direction, their hard stares looking him up and down.
Trouble, he decided, every nerve alerted, every muscle in his body poised, ready. It was no more than he had expected.
One of the men put down his glass and moved towards Garth. He was a little shorter than Garth, but broad, stocky of shoulder and wearing a black, bristle-sharp moustache. He got directly in front of Garth as the other made a half-turn at the bar. Suspicion lay in the room which had now gone suddenly quiet. Tension held the men at the bar and the tables quiet, tight. The man at the piano, sensing trouble, struck up a jangling tune, then stopped as one of the men moved over to him, leaned on the side of the instrument and said something in a sharp undertone.
The man in front of Garth said: ‘Don’t you know better than to be walkin’ the streets like this, mister?’
Garth gave him a level stare, meeting the other’s sharp-bright gaze head on. ‘Who owns the streets of this town?’ he said thinly.
One of the men at the far end of the bar said loudly: ‘He rode into town with Rosarie Glynn, Jeb. Brung in her father on the back of the wagon.’
‘Now maybe he figures that makes him somethin’ of a hero,’ sneered the big man hoarsely. He stood with his hands cocked ready at his sides, hungering for a fight. ‘Maybe he’s strange here and don’t know what’s been happenin’ these past few weeks. Or maybe he ain’t strange at all and he knows what he’s doin’.’
‘Suppose you tell me what I’m doin’?’ Garth said softly, very soft.
‘I reckon you’re here to get information for those killer friends of yours up in the hills,’ said the other without hesitation. ‘We know they’re gettin’ in somehow and it has to be from somebody in town
.’
‘So why should it be me?’
The other drew back his lips over his teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Easy won’t do it, mister,’ he snapped. ‘If you came here lookin’ for trouble — ’ he paused and gave that idea some thought, went on: ‘then I reckon that you’ve come to the right place.’
Garth waited, knowing that this man wanted to fight; he could see it in his stance, in the way his fingers were curled into his palms, tight-fisted. This was the identical stand, the same look that he had seen in similar circumstances several times in the past. He let his gaze wander over the other. There was a broad, red scar down the side of the man’s face, whether from a bullet wound or a fist fight, it was difficult to tell. He looked strong and capable, had clearly survived much violence, most of it of his own making, and now he wanted more; a man governed and living by passion.
‘I reckon you’d better back off, mister,’ said Garth quietly. He let his gaze slide past the other to the small knot of men standing at the end of the bar, men too obviously interested in what was going on. His grin was tightlipped. ‘Besides, I don’t like the idea of guns coverin’ me.’
The big man jerked his head around, then growled: ‘They won’t interfere in this, mister. Shuck that gunbelt.’ As he spoke, he unbuckled his own belt and tossed it across the floor until it came to rest near the bar. He started forward, flat-footed, arms swinging loosely by his sides.
There was no alternative for Garth. He recognized this at once. The man was committed and would never back down. Unbuckling the gunbelt, he let it drop about his feet, knew in a second that this was exactly what the other had been waiting for. Before he could kick the gunbelt clear, the other had leapt forward, swinging in a couple of bone-crushing blows to the body. Only Garth’s experience of dirty fighters saved him in that instant. He twisted instinctively and turned his hip towards the other, lowering his shoulder as the other’s fist hammered at him, then Jeb’s knee lifted. Garth’s sudden movement caused the blow to land on his hip and not in the groin as had been intended. Even so, it knocked him temporarily off balance and he staggered heavily against the bar.