She gave the situation some thought before offering a philosophical comment.
“Long as a body aims to take a hayride, they couldn’t pick a purtier night. Cool breeze blowin’ and frogs a’croakin’.”
“Yeah,” sighed Toby.
“When’s brother Phoebus comin’ back?” she asked.
“That’s kinda hard to say,” he frowned.
“Well, he’ll be back soon enough,” she shrugged. “Come to think of it, he never was all that partial to a hayride.” She withdrew her head. “’Night, darlin’ Toby. Come tomorrer, we’ll figure some other way of gettin’ rid of Mr. Rand.”
It was 2 a.m. and Toby was rolled in his blankets beside the fire, when the apparition materialized and, with many a slap and kick, jolted him back to wakefulness. Phoebus Williger was quite a sight to behold at this time. Hay stuck out of his hair, ears and clothing. He was red-faced and weary, also irate.
“Kept tryin’ to burrow outa that damn-blasted hay,” he mumbled, as he bent over to cuff the protesting Toby. “Kept gettin’ in deeper and deeper—always ended up with my face to the wagon-floor. Didn’t want to holler. That blame sod-buster might’ve gabbed to the law.” He cuffed Toby again, added a kick that almost rolled Toby into the fire. “The law’s certain bound to git curious later on, when we really finish this job.” He hauled Toby to his feet, administered a jarring backhander. “Whyn’t you ’member to gimme my knife ’fore I climbed down that rope...?”
“It weren’t my doggone fault...!” wailed Toby.
“Shuddup,” growled Phoebus. “Anythin’ goes wrong, it’s your fault, and don’t you forget it.” He thrust Toby away from him, trudged away to find his blankets. “I’m dog-tired all over, bet I walked five-six miles after I fell outa that consarn wagon. Must’ve traipsed all over the territory ‘fore I found my way back here...”
“It weren’t my doggone fault,” Toby indignantly repeated.
“I guess not,” Phoebus agreed. “But I’m glad I whupped you. It always makes me feel better.”
At 8 o’clock of that Monday morning, Walt Pringle was enjoying a renewal of his natural optimism. The offensive odor had been overcome by much swabbing and scrubbing in kitchen and dining room. The usual clientele patronized the dining room for breakfast and paid compliments to Corinne Pringle’s cuisine—Corinne having agreed to cook for all guests until such time as the regular chef could resume duty. All was not lost, Pringle reflected, and last night’s harrowing incident would never be repeated.
He received another jolt, however, when he ambled out onto the front porch to smoke his after-breakfast cigar. Marshal Abe Fenton was standing in the center of the street, hands behind his back, eyes raised, round face creased in a puzzled frown. Right away, Pringle’s scalp crawled.
“What is it, Abe?” he called anxiously.
“Come take a look for yourself,” suggested the marshal. “Looks to me like the old hotel is just a’breakin’ up, bit by bit.”
Pringle dashed out into the street to join the lawman in his appraisal of the facade of the building.
“Third balcony from the end,” offered the marshal.
“I see it—I see it,” fretted Pringle. “The railing has broken away...”
“Whose room is that?”
“Jim Rand’s—and that Espina feller.”
“You see ’em at breakfast?”
“Certainly!”
“Well—at least we know nobody broke into that room last night to slit their throats.” The lawman linked an arm through Pringle’s, urged him back to the hotel porch. “Come on. We better go up and parley with Jim. Maybe he knows how that rail got to be busted.”
But Jim could throw no light on the mystery. He shoved the window up and, watched by Benito, Pringle and the marshal, moved out onto the balcony for a closer inspection of the damage. Under his weight, the whole structure seemed to sag, so he took no chances. Retreating into the room, he repeated his original statement.
“I’m as puzzled as you. From the time I put my head on that pillow, nothing happened that could wake me.”
“I seen light.” Benito informed the locals. “There was no sound in the night—no movement…”
“Rail didn’t just fall away,” opined the marshal. “The way it looks to me, it gave way—after somethin’ mighty hefty pressed against it. You can see the broken wood down below on the boardwalk.”
“You think somebody tried to break in here?” challenged Jim. “Well, that would’ve been an easy chore. The window was open.”
“The window was open,” agreed the marshal, “but he must’ve fallen off the balcony before he could climb through.” He eyed Jim curiously. “Jim, you got nothin’ but friends in this town—unless an enemy has showed up—some feller I don’t know about. How about that? You got any ideas?”
“I can think of one man who would breathe a lot easier, if I were dead,” muttered Jim. “But he isn’t here in Pringle. You’ve seen his picture. You know who I’m talking about. He couldn’t stay hidden in a town this size.”
“No,” frowned the marshal. “Jenner ain’t here. I’m dead sure of that.”
After the lawman and the hotel owner had departed, Jim again moved across to the window to frown thoughtfully at the flimsy balcony now minus its main section of railing. Benito, lounging on his bed, drawled a query.
“You think it’s true, eh? Some hombre tried to come through the window?”
“It’s possible,” said Jim.
“Such a hombre would be a fool,” opined Benito. “This is the room where sleeps my Amigo Jim—one fine pistolero, one grande caballero...”
“Button the lip a minute, cucaracha,” chided Jim. “I’m thinking.” He rolled and lit a cigarette, spent a few more moments in consideration of the events of the past forty-eight hours, then spoke his thoughts aloud. “Falling out of that tree—that was a genuine accident. No way it could be rigged. The stampede? Who knows why a herd of cattle stampede? I don’t believe that stampede was started on purpose, so I guess there’s no connection.”
“No connection to what?” demanded Benito.
“To what happened out by Crow Butte yesterday morning,” said Jim.
“This was no accident,” asserted Benito.
“This was no accident.” Jim shook his head emphatically. “The jasper behind that rifle was doing his damnedest to make grave bait of me.” He turned to frown at the Mex. “And last night—that crazy business with the beef stew…”
“Somebody tries to poison you?” blinked Benito.
“And made a hash of it,” declared Jim. “I’d have died if I’d eaten any of that stuff. What I mean—if it could burn into a table, it would’ve raised hell with my insides. The point is I’d never have eaten it anyway—on account of the smell.” He nodded to the balcony. “Last night some hombre was on that balcony. Maybe he meant to rob me, but it’s more likely he hankered to take a shot at me. Before he could get to shooting, he fell off the balcony. That’s a guess, but it’s probably right.”
A clatter of hooves took him to the window again; he watched the off-duty drovers of the Double G outfit riding briskly along Main, raising dust, whooping, waving their sombreros to such local women as happened to glance their way. The town was becoming somewhat more populated than when he first arrived.
“Somewhere in this burg,” he assured Benito, “there’s at least one man who’s doing his damnedest to kill me.”
“Si.” The Mex nodded nervously. “This is true, I think. So what do you do now?”
“For a starter,” said Jim, “I’ll take a few simple precautions.”
Chapter Eight – Live Dangerously, Die Fast
By 9 a.m., Jim had completed the chore of transferring himself and Benito to another double room on the second floor. This was arranged with the full co-operation of Walt Pringle, who also agreed that Jim’s entry in the hotel register would remain as it was. Anybody checking the register would believe Jim to be occupying that first room.
This was Jim’s first precaution.
Other precautions? He thought it over, while preparing to leave the hotel and pay Nora a sociable visit. To request any assistance from old Marshal Fenton would have been alien to his nature; he would handle his own protection—cracked ribs or no cracked ribs. Even so that corset of plaster was somewhat of a restriction, a hindrance to hamper him seriously should he need to act swiftly. Hadn’t this point been driven home to him yesterday? It surely had.
“I have just two choices,” he remarked to Benito. “Sit here in a hotel room, go nowhere, see nobody…”
“This would be safest, I think,” suggested Benito.
“Or get out and about, take a little exercise, breathe some fresh air,” mused Jim.
“This would not be wise,” frowned Benito. “Somewhere in this town is a hombre who, wishes to kill you.”
“I’m not allowed to ride,” said Jim grimacing, “but you didn’t say I couldn’t take a walk.”
“Then I will stay in this room,” Benito promptly decided.
“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Jim grinned a wry grin. “You don’t hanker to walk along Main Street with a man who’s apt to get shot at.”
“If a bullet aimed at my Amigo Jim should miss,” shuddered Benito, “and strike me instead, killing the handsomest ladrón in all the Southwest, this would be one grande tragedia.”
“Except,” countered Jim, “to folks who don’t appreciate to be robbed,” He donned his Stetson, gave his gunbelt a hitch. “Well, I’d as soon lock horns with this killer in broad daylight as sit here and wait for him to pick his own time. Besides, I aim to stop by the schoolhouse. Haven’t yet had a chance to see it.”
“Always this feeling for a schoolhouse,” commented Benito.
“Education is mighty important,” asserted Jim. He jibed, on his way to the door, “If I hadn’t read books and learned how to figure, I’d never have made sergeant. I might’ve ended up as a no-account pickpocket—toting a busted guitar and riding a flea-bit burro.”
“I too have my pride, my loyalty to the family tradition!” Benito protested, much to Jim’s amusement. “My father was a thief—and his father before him...”
Chuckling, Jim quit the room and walked the corridor to the stairs. But, while descending to the lobby, his mirth subsided; he was again considering the prospect of a staked-out gunman fight here in Pringle, some would-be assassin who, for reasons best known to himself, craved to reduce the population by one ex-sergeant of cavalry. Was Jenner behind these attempts on his life? Maybe that was the answer. He was getting too close for Jenner’s comfort. Jenner had learned of his dangerous proximity and was making the effort to have him disposed of before he could get any closer. This seemed a reasonable theory. He strongly doubted that his quarry could be hidden somewhere in this town—but there were other towns not too far distant, less than two day’s ride from Pringle in fact.
When he descended from the hotel porch and began walking uptown, he was covertly studied by the burly, florid man loitering on the opposite boardwalk. Lynn Bissell’s patience was wearing thin. The light-hearted mood of the cattlemen riding along the main stem was lost on him; his mood was grim.
A familiar voice, challenging him from behind, caused him to start convulsively. That voice was nasal, drawling, derisive.
“What’s holding you back?”
Bissell turned to glower at the emissary assigned by Jenner to check on the progress of the hired guns. He knew this sardonic, flashily-garbed gambler by sight—Del Krauss—supervisor of the dice layout at the Casino Ricardo.
“That was a damn fool thing to do, Krauss,” he muttered. “It don’t pay to sneak up behind me that way. I might’ve—just turned round and let you have it.”
“No—I don’t reckon so,” grinned Krauss. “You couldn’t earn a dime by putting me away.”
“What the hell’re you doin’ in Pringle?” demanded Bissell.
“Somers sent me,” shrugged Krauss. “Can’t you guess why? Before he pays off, he wants to be sure which of you gunned Rand. Was it you or was it Keane—that’s what he needs to know. You could call me an observer, kind of.” He stared after the big man now approaching the corner of Main and Brackett. “That’s him, eh?”
“You’ve seen Rand before?” asked Bissell.
“No,” said Krauss. “But I’m betting that’s him. Somers says he’s a big one—and I’ve rarely seen a man that big.”
“Well, that’s Rand all right,” nodded Bissell. “And it just happens I was plannin’ on finishin’ the job this mornin’. I know Jase Keane is hangin’ round—waitin’ his chance. It’d be a real blow to my pride, Krauss, if somebody else collected the bounty on Rand.”
“Go ahead then,” smiled Krauss, “and I sure wish you luck.”
“You ain’t comin’ along to watch?” challenged Bissell. His lip curled, as Krauss averted his eyes and shook his head. “Just like I thought. All you tinhorns are alike.” He chuckled softly. “Got no stomach for killin’. Can’t abide the sight of blood.”
“I’m a gambler,” muttered Krauss, “not a professional butcher.”
“Don’t call me butcher,” countered Bissell. “I stake my life every time I face a man.”
“Like hell you do,” jibed Krauss. “I’ve heard how you work—with sneak-guns hidden all over you. You’re a sure-thing killer, Bissell. The other man never knows where the gun’ll come from, or which gun you’ll use.”
“I got no time to hang around and swap gab with you—tinhorn,” said Bissell.
He began walking slowly toward the intersection of Main and Brackett. His quarry had disappeared from view, but he had the feeling he would sight him again very soon. Why this morning? Why had he decided to wait no longer? He felt no shame at the prospect of giving himself an edge, challenging his intended victim at a time when it seemed there would be little chance of effective retaliation. This morning he had heard of the big man’s condition, the fact that the hero of yesterday’s near-tragedy with the Double G herd was currently encumbered by a tight binding of adhesive plaster from armpits to belly.
“Two cracked ribs,” Bissell was thinking. “And you’re all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. All right, Rand, if that don’t slow you down, I don’t know what will. You’re an easy mark, mister. You’re as good as in the ground.”
Jim finished his stroll at the picket fence of the community school, a red-painted edifice located at the west end of Brackett Road. An oak tree of considerable size shaded the area adjacent to the gate and portion of the pathway leading to the schoolhouse door. As he approached, he reflected that Nora made a pleasing picture this sunny morning crisp and cool in white blouse and black skirt, standing by the gateway and ushering her small charges through. Up the path scuttled the children, laughing and chattering. Well to the fore, Jim noticed, was little Leroy, none the worse for his frightening experience on Saturday morning.
Nora flashed him a warm smile, as he ambled closer. Quitting the gateway, she came over to join him near the trunk of the sheltering oak.
“Don’t let me keep you from your pupils,” he grinned.
“They can wait a few moments,” she good-humoredly assured him. “If they had their way, there’d be no school at all—as if I need tell you.” She studied him with some concern. “How are you feeling?”
“Just fine,” he declared. “Fit to straddle that horse of mine and ride from here to the Rio Grande.”
“If Dad heard you say that,” she chuckled, “he’d have a seizure.”
“Don’t worry—I’m resigned to it,” he told her. “From now on, I’m following doctor’s orders, no matter what happens.”
They talked on for a few minutes, during which time Lynn Bissell entered Brackett Road and sauntered to the schoolhouse. He was ready to make his move and determined to move when it best suited his purpose. The initiative would be his, and his victim would be one mighty surprised corpse. That at least was the way he had planned it. Faze the
woman. Insult her, because Rand had the demeanor of a gallant; he was the kind who couldn’t stand by and hear a lady insulted. The big man, Bissell felt sure, would make an instinctive movement toward the ivory butt of that long-barreled Colt at his right hip. Hampered by the stiffness, the tight trussing of his torso, he hadn’t a hope of drawing that big gun any faster than Bissell could empty his concealed shoulder holster.
Nora was half-way through inviting Jim to supper that night, when the gunman’s drawling voice smote her ears. Bissell addressed her from some twelve yards away. He stood in a pose of contrived nonchalance, left thumb hooked in his cartridge-belt close to the butt of his holstered .45.
“Let some other female tend the young ’uns today,” urged Bissell, without preamble.
She tensed, darted him a sidelong glance.
“I—beg your pardon? Were you speaking to me?”
“Nobody else around here worth talkin’ to,” grinned Bissell, “or worth lookin’ at.” He crooked a finger. “Let’s go, eh? Forget about the kids. I’ll hire us a couple horses and we’ll take a little ride, and…”
“That’s all,” admonished Jim, very quietly. “You’ve said enough.”
“…a little ride in the country’d do you a heap of good,” Bissell assured Nora. He winked, as he added, “Come to think of it, it wouldn’t do me no harm either.”
“Move away, Nora,” said Jim.
“I don’t understand!” she breathed. “Who is he? Why does he come here and…?”
“Forget him,” growled Jim. “Go on into the school house.”
Bissell hadn’t stopped talking. He was raising his voice now and had abandoned innuendo and clumsy hints in favor of outright, undisguised obscenity, all of it aimed at the ashen-faced Nora, who was retreating to the gateway with her hands clamped to her ears. He repeated his invitation, added a few suggestions that put him in a very special category, as far as Jim was concerned. In many a barracks, the big ex-sergeant had heard many a fluent cusser, many a hard-boiled trooper with a positive genius for profanity, but none to compare with this bulky, florid-faced, wet mouthed killer.
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