by Burt Kroll
“Top of the stairs, third door on the left,” he was advised.
Merrill mounted the stairs and tapped on the door. He had to repeat his action with more power before a tired voice bellowed for him to depart quickly.
“This is the law,” Merrill replied. “I’m sorry to bust into your sleep like this, Eppel, but I can’t wait around for you. Open up and talk to me then you can go back to sleep and I can hit the trail.”
The door opened to reveal an overweight man with small, slitted eyes under bunched brows. There was a scowl on the fleshy face that bespoke of ill-humor, and Merrill figured he would not get any help from this quarter. He should have spoken to him at a more opportune time.
“I have to get my sleep during the day,” Eppel said in a hoarse voice. “I’m awake half the night.”
“Sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got to be heading back to Portville with my prisoner, and I don’t want to waste any time. I want to talk to you about the men you saw in the saloon along with Wood and Thompson.”
“I told Linnaker all I knew. Nothing else has come to mind.”
“Did they make friends with anyone who lives around here?” Merrill asked. “I’m trying to find a link between them and a local man.”
“They kept pretty much to themselves, and the local men didn’t care to join them. They were that kind of a bunch, but, thinking about them, they seemed to be working, if you know what I mean. They weren’t just resting up while passing through. They seemed to put their heads together a lot, and there was something going on. I remember figuring that probably they were rustlers, but their hands seemed to indicate that they were gunnies.”
“Everybody has noticed their hands,” Merrill mused. “So they’re gunhands. That means someone brought them in deliberately. But why?”
“No good asking me.” Eppel shook his head. “Can I go back to bed now?”
“If there’s nothing else you can tell me,” Merrill said. “Just think it over, huh? Was there any contact between them and anyone around here?”
“Like I told you, they kind of discouraged friendliness. Even I didn’t talk more than I had to. There was an air about them, if you get me. The only man who could chat with them was the boss.”
“Your boss? Maitland?”
“Sure. He sat at their table a couple of times. But then it’s his job to be friendly with the customers. He can mix with any type. He played cards with them on a couple of occasions, I recall. I figured then that he was a braver man than me. I wouldn’t have cared to be alone in the same room as that bunch. And you killed three of them? That puts you in a class of your own, mister.”
“Yeah.” Merrill’s mind was turning over the thought of Maitland and the six men. He pictured Maitland and wondered about the saloon man, then turned away.
“Thanks for your help,” he said in farewell.
The door closed at his back and he went on back to the jail. He told Linnaker about his chat with Eppel, and when he voiced his suspicions about Maitland the town marshal grimaced
“Maitland is a law unto himself,” Linnaker retorted. “He’ll mix with anyone who stands at his bar. I saw him at the table with that bunch now I come to think of it. Yeah, but I paid no heed to that because Maitland owns the saloon and it’s his job to mix with the customers.”
“That’s what Eppel said and why he didn’t mention Maitland as mixing with them. But maybe there was more to it than just business for Maitland. I got nothing else to work on so I’ve got to chase up any clue I can get. Keep this under your hat, Marshal. Maitland is going back to Portville today, and so am I. I’ll be watching out for him in future.”
“Good luck. I hope you make your trip successfully. Keep your eyes open, and don’t give your prisoner any chances, huh?”
“Don’t worry about him.” Merrill smiled faintly. “I’ve handled worse odds than him before today.”
“Go saddle up the horses and I’ll have Wood ready to leave by the time you get back,” Linnaker said, and Merrill left the office and went along to the stable.
When Wood was handcuffed in his saddle, Merrill took his leave of Linnaker and headed out of town. His prisoner was sullen, slumped in his saddle but watchful, and Merrill figured the man was half expecting to be rescued along the trail. But he was taking no chances, and they moved steadily along the trail that led eventually to Portville. Merrill was thoughtful although he did not relax his vigilance, and he glanced at his prisoner from time to time. Wood seemed to be dozing in his saddle, and Merrill realized that he had a long, dangerous ride ahead. He would not stop until they reached their destination.
When they reined in for a breather, Merrill tried a bluff, which had slowly formulated in his mind. He glanced sideways at Wood and spoke casually.
“There’s gonna be hell in Portville when we reach there,” he confided. “I found out in Birch Creek that Frank Maitland is the man you’ve been working for, and the first thing I’m gonna do is toss him in a cell with you.”
“Maitland?” Wood’s reply was sharp, almost too sharp, Merrill figured. “Who the hell is Frank Maitland?”
“He’s the man who brought in you and your five pards to make life hell for me. I don’t know why yet but I’ll get to the bottom of it. If you care to make your own life easier by talking to me I’ll see what I can do for you when you go before the judge.”
“I got nothing to say. You got nothing on me.”
“Care to tell me where you were before you rode into Birch Creek about four hours ahead of me?” Merrill pursued.
“I was riding the range. Came down from the north.”
“You’re a liar. You rode in from the east. I got the receipt from your saddlebag that you signed with Joel Raynor when you exchanged horses with him. You left a buckskin with him, and that buckskin had a loose right rear shoe. I found its tracks outside my place after a bunch of riders rode in there the other evening and poured lead at the house. That ties you in with the bunch, Wood, and you’re in a lot of trouble because you were riding that buckskin when my paid was shot dead from ambush. That’s murder, and you’re gonna wind up with a rope around your neck.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the sullen reply.
“I don’t need your word on it,” Merrill explained. “We’re dropping by Raynor’s place on our way to Portville, and he’ll identify you for me. That will be good enough in any court to put a rope around your neck.”
They continued, and Merrill did not relax his vigilance. He was half expecting trouble in one form or another, but nothing happened, and towards evening, he sighted Joel Raynor’s place. He eased himself in his saddle as they approached.
The sun was low in the western sky and shadows were creeping in along the ground as Merrill urged their mounts into the yard fronting the small house. He looked around. Stock was waiting to be fed, he could tell, but there was no sign of Raynor, and he called the man’s name, his voice echoing. When there was no reply, he began to get worried, and loosened his gun in its holster as he dismounted. He tethered the horses, checked that Wood was still securely handcuffed, then moved towards the doorway of the house.
A movement in the doorway of the barn to his left attracted his attention and his gaze flickered quickly. He saw a figure emerging from the interior, and thought it was Raynor, but the dying sunlight glinted upon a rifle, and the weapon was being lifted to cover him. He spun immediately, making a fast draw, and in that instant a harsh voice yelled at him from an upper window in the house. He was lifting his gun towards the figure in the barn but turned his head quickly to see a man’s head and shoulders at a bedroom window, and there was a hand thrust forward holding a sixgun. He had walked into a gun trap.
Merrill’s mind seemed to mist over as he went into action. His gun was pointing in the general direction of the barn, and it was a long shot for a sixgun in a hurry. But he fired twice, squeezing the trigger rapidly. As soon as the second shot crashed, he hurled himself down into the dust and r
olled sideways, his ears filled with blaring thunder. Bullets struck the ground at his side, passing through the spot he had vacated, and he rolled upon his back, bringing his gun hand up to line at the window, which was obscured by gunsmoke. His gun bucked in his hand, jarring against his flesh, and he emptied the weapon at the window, breathing shallowly of the flaring gun-smoke that puffed around him.
Still moving, he gained his feet and hurled himself forward until he could drop flat beside the front wall of the house. He lay gasping for breath, his experienced fingers speedily reloading the sixgun. He threw a glance at Wood as he did so, and saw that the gunman was sitting his mount, hands cuffed to the saddlehorn, a taut expression on his face as he watched this play intently.
When his gun was reloaded, Merrill looked towards the barn, and was filled with satisfaction at the sight of a figure sprawled in the doorway, a discarded rifle lying several feet away. His first two shots had scored a telling hit. He wondered about the man at the upper window, and listened intently. The echoes of the shooting were now grumbling away across the range, and silence was returning reluctantly. But there was hostility in the air, and Merrill pushed himself to his feet, surprised that he had so far come through the skirmish unscathed, and entered the house.
He made it to the stairs, gun held ready, and moved up them one at a time, nerves taut and reflexes hair-triggered. The slightest movement or sound would send him into thunderous action. But he gained the door of the front bedroom and paused to catch his breath. The door was ajar, and he listened intently, hearing only the beating of his heart and the rush of blood at his temples. Then he kicked open the door and thrust forward his gunhand.
There was a man lying on the floor with the back of his head torn away by one of Merrill’s slugs. The bullet had taken him in the face and exploded against the rear of the skull. Merrill slitted his eyes as he took in the grim scene, then turned away and made a search of the rest of the house. When he entered the kitchen downstairs, he was surprised to find Joel Raynor tied to a chair. There was a neckerchief stuffed into the man’s mouth, and his eyes were bulging with horror.
Merrill holstered his gun and untied Raynor, and a torrent of speech poured from the man when the gag was removed.
“Take it easy,” Merrill cut in. “I got the two men who were here. It seems obvious that they were lying in wait for me so they must have known I was on my way to Portville from Birch Creek. But I’ll go into that later. Tell me what happened here.”
“Those two men came in to water their horses about three hours ago,” Raynor said raggedly, gasping for breath. His nerves were ruffled, his hands shaking. “Then they pulled their guns on me and tied me up in here. One of them said they was expecting visitors. I had no idea it was you.”
“So they were lying in wait for me.” Merrill shook his head slowly as he pondered. “They must have left Birch Creek ahead of me. I got one of their pards prisoner outside. Come on out and take a look at him. Tell me who you think he is.”
They went out into the dying daylight and Raynor took one look at the prisoner and nodded emphatically.
“That’s the man who came in here and exchanged horses with me,” he said. “He left the buckskin with the loose shoe and took the black he’s riding.”
“Yeah, I know,” Merrill said. “I got the receipt the two of you signed. I found it in one of his saddlebags. That ties him in with my trouble. But these other two. They rode in here alone?”
“Sure thing. When they pulled their guns I thought my last hour had come. They were sure mean-looking men.”
“The one in your bedroom ain’t none too pretty to look at now,” Merrill said grimly. “Watch my prisoner while I go check that one in the barn doorway.”
He drew his gun again although it was fairly obvious that the man was dead, and scuffed through the dust to the body. The man was dead. One bullet had taken him through the center of the chest and the second had broken his right arm. Merrill gazed down at the man, reliving the tense moments of action, and he was satisfied with his shooting. He had lost none of his former skill and speed.
He returned to the house, and found Raynor with a bottle of whisky. The man was badly shaken by events, and his hands trembled as he gulped liquor from the bottle. Merrill could sympathize with the man. He was unaccustomed to this kind of happening. It needed some getting used to, and he was thankful that his experience in the past was standing him in good stead now.
“How about some food, Raynor?” he demanded. “If you’ll get some grub ready I’ll prepare the two stiffs for travel. I’ll take them into town with me and report this business. I reckon if I could get them back to Birch Creek some of the folks there would be able to tie them in with Wood here, but it don’t make no difference. I got Wood tied in with murder, and he’ll hang for that.” He glanced at his prisoner as he spoke and saw the man’s taut expression. Perhaps Wood had known this attempt was to be made, and he must be disappointed because it had failed.
But the prisoner had nothing to say, and while Raynor went into the house to prepare a meal, Merrill went to work on the grim chore of getting his two dead men ready for travel. He took a blanket from one of the horses the two gunmen had ridden and went into the bedroom to wrap up the gory mess he had made. When both men were tied across their saddles, he washed and took Wood into the kitchen for food. It was full dark when he prepared to ride on over the last lap to Portville, and refused Raynor’s offer of a bed for the night. He wanted to get back to town and put an end to this business. He was certain now that of the six men who had originally hit his ranch, five were dead and one was his prisoner. But that did not solve anything. The man who had brought them into the county in the first place was still at large and undetected, and gunmen were ten cents each in the West. It was not over yet, by a long rope, and Merrill was only too aware of the fact.
Seven
On the ride into Portville from the Raynor place, Merrill was a very thoughtful man. The moon shone down from a clear sky, bathing the range in ghostly light, and only the creaking of their saddle harness and the thud of hooves broke the heavy silence that surrounded them. Merrill knew the trail intimately, and he made detours around certain spots to avoid the possibility of further ambush, although he was content in his own mind that there were no more gunmen left. The man who had hired them would expect the last two to succeed where the others had failed, and until he learned that the worst had happened, Merrill fancied that he was fairly safe, although he would take no chances.
He considered every aspect of the business, and came to believe that of the two suspects he had, Frank Maitland was the more likely. He knew that Si Kester was jealous of him and, accepting that the man’s passions were sufficiently forceful to encompass violence, then Kester could be at the back of this trouble. But the town marshal of Portville would not have had the opportunity of contacting his hirelings in Birch Creek, and someone had been giving them fresh orders as the situation changed. There had been the ambush in Birch Creek itself, then the gun trap set at the Raynor place, which could only have been conceived when it was known exactly when Merrill intended heading for Portville with his prisoner. Apart from that, the fact that Merrill had evidence in the shape of that receipt for the exchange of the horses could only have been known to someone actually in Birch Creek at the time, otherwise the gun trap at Raynor’s place would not have been possible. Those two gunmen now draped across their saddles had ridden into Raynor’s spread some four hours ahead of Merrill, knowing that he was going to visit the rancher to check on Wood.
But how did he handle the situation when he reached Portville? That was the question burning in Merrill’s mind. He did not have a shred of evidence against whoever had paid the gunmen, unless he could get Wood to talk, and the gunman was even more sullen since the last attempt upon Merrill’s life had failed.
The miles dropped by and they continued in silence, four horses moving as one, connected by leading reins to Merrill’s horse. He twisted in his sadd
le repeatedly, watching his back trail, but there were no sharp pangs of suspicion in his mind and he fancied that his instincts would not let him down. He was not in any danger on the trail. His trouble would recommence when he reported to Portville and it became known what had happened. Then the man who was out to kill him would hire fresh gunmen.
The knowledge brought a harsh glitter to his eyes. He would fight anyone he could see or meet on even terms, but how did one face up to a situation where the first intimation of trouble was an ambush bullet? He could not tip off his hand to either Kester or Maitland by accosting them, challenging them, because they had only to deny him and then would have the extra advantage of being aware of his suspicions. But if he could set a trap for them, either to clear them or prove their guilt; that would be another matter. He pondered over the chances as he continued.
It was just before dawn when he finally sighted Portville, and the sound of their hooves rang from every dusty and dark corner as they moved along the street. There was a light showing at the window of the law office, and he sighed heavily as he reined in at the hitchrail and then stepped down into the dust. He wrapped his reins around the pole and stretched, peering around as he did so. The rest of the town was in darkness, still slumbering, but dawn was not far off, for the night sky was already breaking up, turning gray towards the east.
He unfastened Wood’s handcuffs and dragged the man out of his saddle, and they stepped on to the sidewalk and Merrill rapped on the door of the office with heavy knuckles. They waited several moments before he heard a chair scrape inside, and then heavy boots pounded the floorboards to pause just inside the door.
“Who’s out there?” a harsh voice demanded.
“Ward Merrill.”
The sound of the bar being removed came to Merrill’s ears, and the next instant, the door swung open, permitting lamplight to shaft out across him and his prisoner. Si Kester stood framed in the doorway, blinking rapidly, and the town marshal stifled a yawn as he looked at the prisoner then sent his gaze darting to the ominous figures draped across their saddles at the hitchrail.