He jerked aside suddenly. Russ tottered forward, off balance. They invented right hooks for times like this. He aimed one at the guy’s jaw. Nothing happened. His right arm didn’t move. It hung at his side, numbed by the blow of the tire iron. Sorry, bud. Our right hooks are out of stock at the moment. He switched and hooked a left. Too late again. Russ was balanced once more, brushed it aside, moved in behind a sawmill whirl of rights and lefts.
He danced back from the blows, jabbing with his left. It was pretty futile. The dam was breaking and he was trying to hold it back with his little finger. The heavy swings began surging over his guard and breaking like surf on his head and body. This wouldn’t last long. The big fists didn’t hurt but he could feel each one packing him away more snugly into soft black wool.
His foot hit something that clattered and he caught a bleary glimpse of the .45 skittering across the floor. He dived at it. The floor smacked him harder than Russ had done but he got the gun in his left hand and clawed at the safety catch and then a skyrocket went soaring up inside his head and burst and faded in darkness.
Five
It wasn’t easy to open his eyes. His eyelids were heavy and he had to jack them up slowly as if he were raising a car wheel to change a tire. Now and then the jack slipped and the eyelids slammed down and he had to start all over again. Finally he got them up so they stayed. It was queer that he had been thinking in terms of jacks and tires because he seemed to be lying on the floor of an auto repair shop.
A few feet away was a car, and beside it a mechanic was lying on his back, probably getting ready to slide under the car on one of those low-wheeled platforms that mechanics use.
He called thickly, “Hey, Mac.”
The mechanic didn’t hear him. Didn’t move, either. Mechanics probably caught up on their sleep when they rolled under cars but this guy didn’t even bother to get under the car first. He didn’t even mind lying right in a little pool of oil.
If anybody was going to move it looked as if Bill Wayne was elected. It would be nice if that tow truck in the corner would back up to him and drop its hook and crank him up to his feet, but in this joint they only worried about auto bodies, not human ones. He got up slowly. While he was doing it the knocking in his head quickened until he thought a bearing was going to burn out, but once he was up it quit chattering so loudly. His right arm wasn’t really crumpled, either. Just numb and asleep.
What a sloppy joint this was. A mechanic sleeping on the floor in a pool of oil, nobody working, tools scattered around. Right at his feet somebody had left a small power tool that looked as if it might be used to drill holes in metal. He stooped, picked it up. That was odd. You didn’t use this to drill holes in metal. You used it to drill holes in people. It was a .45 Government Model Colt Automatic Pistol. He sniffed at the muzzle and got an acrid smell that knifed into his head like ammonia and started it clearing.
The pistol had recently been used to drill a hole in somebody. It had done an efficient job. The mechanic lying on the floor was Russ, and that wasn’t oil leaking out of his coveralls. That is, not unless they were making oil in dull red shades this season. Russ wasn’t getting ready to slide under the car, either; he had no further use for cars, except maybe a hearse.
He looked at his wristwatch and saw that it was a little after ten. He must have been unconscious for almost twenty minutes. Probably Russ had banged his head against the floor or kicked him just as the .45 let go. He tried to picture the way it had happened. There was Russ leaning down to bang his head on the floor. Or there was Russ getting in the kick, poised right over him. And yet Russ had ended on his back eight feet away. A slug from a .45 packed an awful wallop but you wouldn’t think it would throw a man around like that. Of course Russ might have staggered backward—not that guys did much staggering when a .45 nailed them in the heart.
That had been quite a shot. It must have been left-handed, too, because his right hand hadn’t been in working order. He couldn’t have done as well right-handed if he had emptied the whole clip into Russ. He took out the clip and counted the bullets. Five. He worked the slide and ejected the sixth cartridge from the chamber. He picked it up from the floor and, while he was at it, hunted around for the cartridge case of the bullet that had been fired. It had rolled somewhere out of sight and he couldn’t find it. He replaced the sixth bullet and shoved the clip back into place. Just out of curiosity he held the automatic in his left hand and practiced aiming it. The thing wobbled as if he were using a popcorn shaker. That left-handed shot of his certainly rated as beginner’s luck.
For a moment he was almost tempted to believe he couldn’t have done the shooting. But that was just kidding himself, of course. Nobody else had been around who might have done the job. He’d better get out of here fast, if he didn’t want to find himself on a witness stand pulling that old gag about everything going black.
The thing to do was not leave many clues. Clue number one was the bullet. They could have it. Clue number two was the cartridge case. Ditto. Clue number three was the switch controlling the garage doors, which he had touched when he arrived. They couldn’t have that one; anybody who had been in the Armed Forces had a full set of fingerprints on file in Washington. He went to the switch and wiped it with a handkerchief. Clue number four, footprints. Just to be a good guy he would leave the footprints, seeing that he couldn’t mop up the whole floor.
Clue number five was his appearance. He was taking that with him, although not many people would think it was worth the trouble. His clothes were dusty and rumpled, and his body felt as if people had been holding a rodeo on it. He stumbled across the shop and found a washroom. He yanked out a paper towel and cleaned smears of blood and dirt from his face. That uncovered bruises; his face looked like an apple left too long at the bottom of a barrel. He brushed dirt from his clothes and noted that fortunately he hadn’t picked up any oil or grease stains. He combed his hair, wiped possible fingerprints from the faucets, switched out the light.
The idea of rolling up the noisy overhead doors didn’t appeal to him, and he headed out through the small office beside the shop. He paused a moment to open desk drawers, using a handkerchief, in the hope of finding a map showing the lake where the C-47 had ditched. No maps. He opened the office door, saw the street was empty and walked out.
Sometime in the near future people were going to look at his bruised face and say, “Why, Mr. Wayne, whatever happened to you!” And if, when people asked that question, they had been reading in the paper about a terrific fight in which a man was finally shot and killed, they might connect the two things. He couldn’t afford to be connected in any way with Russ because it would be too easy to dig up a motive.
He walked back to U.S. 30. Halfway between the tourist court and town was a scrubby little park. He hid the .45 at the base of a tree and started into town to shop for an alibi. There was a nip in the air and he began buttoning his sports jacket. He fumbled with the second buttonhole and couldn’t find the button. He stopped, examined it. The second button was gone. He remembered buttoning the jacket in the evening to hide the .45 tucked under his belt. Quite likely the button had ripped off during the fight, and was lying on the floor of the garage where a cop would find it. He took out a penknife and cut off the other two buttons and threw them away.
He walked into downtown Cheyenne. It was Saturday night and the place was getting ready to kick up its heels. Ranch hands and guys from a nearby military post were prospecting around for excitement. A couple of police cars were riding herd on things, and pairs of MPs moved along the sidewalks peering into bars and taprooms. It looked as if Cheyenne could be a tough town on Saturday night. That was fine; he wanted to pick a fight and collect a few honest lumps and coax the cops to rescue him.
On a side street he found just the kind of taproom he needed; dim lighting that wouldn’t call attention to his bruised face, and a rugged-looking crowd at the bar. He marched in, wedged his shoulder between a couple of big cowboys, rammed through
to the bar. “Give a guy room, will you?” he snarled. The two ranch hands turned toward him. They were tall rangy guys, and once they started working on him they would probably be about as easy to stop as a stampede. He forced himself to say in a nasty tone, “Who do you think you’re staring at?”
The big guy on his right studied him for a moment, then smiled and said, “I’m lookin’ at a man that seems to want a drink bad. Don’t mind me. Step right in and get one.” He called to his friend on the other side, “Ain’t that right, Joe?”
“It sure is,” the other said. “I’ll even buy the man a drink. What’ll it be, pardner?”
He looked up at the two big friendly faces and knew he couldn’t pick a fight with guys as nice as these. “A shot of rye,” he said weakly.
They draped arms as heavy as fence posts over his shoulders and ordered the drink and tossed theirs down and then shook hands and said they had a poker game coming up and had to get back to it. They sauntered out. Great. Everybody loved him. What did you have to do in this town to start a fight? He ordered another drink and lifted it and felt somebody jostle his arm. He swung around fiercely and saw an Army sergeant, the kind of guy who picks his teeth with a bayonet.
“You shoved me, you big ape,” he snapped.
The sergeant swung his head around slowly, like a tank turret. After a long moment he said, “Sorry, mister.”
What was the Army coming to? “You spilled my drink too.”
“All right, mister. I’ll buy you another.”
“You act tough until somebody gets tough with you, huh?”
The sergeant pulled out a dollar bill and threw it on the counter. “Buy yourself a drink or tear it up,” he said crisply. “If you’re looking for a fight you have the wrong guy. This town’s lousy with MPs. Smacking you down ain’t worth these stripes.” He wheeled and marched out of the place.
There was too much law and order around Cheyenne: deputy sheriffs, cops in prowl cars, MPs. If any of them were really on the ball they’d be digging up a murder instead of making sure nobody got a black eye. They—
Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw it was the bartender. The guy had a close-cropped cannonball head, and arms like a couple of beer kegs placed on end.
“Out,” the bartender said. “You been looking for trouble ever since you got here. Out.”
This was one of your real old-time bartenders who could shake up tough drunks faster than he could mix a martini. He leaned across the bar with his face in easy range of the bartender’s fists and smiled quietly and said, “Who’s going to put me out? You?”
The bartender picked up a phone. “Not me, Mac. We have cops to handle bullies like you…hello, sergeant? Eddy the bartender at the Lone Rider Bar. We got a drunk here looking for a fight and—”
Bill headed for the exit. In a couple more minutes the cops would be swarming around looking for him and he would have no alibi to explain his appearance. The cops wouldn’t worry about that at the time, but when they found Russ had been shot after a brawl they might want to ask who he had been fighting. He hurried out through the doorway and crashed into somebody headed the other way.
A thin voice rasped at him, “Whyn’t you look where you’re going, you big ox! You want a smack in the nose?”
This guy was an Army private. Not a Pfc, just a plain buck private. He was small but he looked angry, and that was the main thing. “Yes,” Bill said hopefully. “I want a smack in the nose.”
The private swayed slightly. “Okay. Step outside.”
“We are outside.”
“Yeah?” The private peered around slowly and suspiciously. “Oh,” he said, “I get it. You want to start something right in front of this joint so when you get licked your pals can run out and jump me.”
“I wouldn’t pull a trick like that,” Bill said soothingly. “Look. There’s an alley right next to us. We can step in there and settle things.” He could let the fight start in the alley and take a few punches and come staggering back onto the pavement where everybody could see him getting hit.
The private turned and started for the alley, placing his feet as if afraid he might mislay one. Bill caught up to him and linked an arm through one of his and helped him walk into the alley. Then he stepped back and waited.
“Say,” the private said. “You’re a pretty good guy, giving me a hand. Maybe I won’t put the slug on you after all.”
They couldn’t do this to him. “Scared, are you?” he snarled.
“Nah. I’m starting to like you. Let’s have a drink, huh?”
“I never make friends with a guy until I know he’s a real man. You want to make friends with me, you got to fight me.”
The little private drew back his right fist. “You asked for it,” he said.
He brought the fist around in a wild swing. The alley was dark and Bill couldn’t judge where the fist was going. He tried to step into it but the swing looped around his neck and the small soldier lurched forward against him and sagged quietly to the ground. Bill knelt, shook him. It was no use. The guy was asleep. Somewhere in the distance a police siren wailed like a cat on a back fence. It was coming closer. He crouched beside the sleeping man and tried to figure. In another minute it would be too late. It—
Behind him a voice snapped, “What’s going on here?”
He turned. Up above him, silhouetted against the light from the street, was a tall man with shoulders built like a mesa. Above the shoulders was a blurred face topped by a wide Stetson.
“Talk up,” the big man said.
As the guy spoke he moved a little, and light glinted on a cartridge belt and pistol, on a hunk of star-shaped metal on his left shirt pocket, and on floppy yellow hair spilling out from under the Stetson. Nobody looked that big and important but Deputy Sheriff Carson Smith. When he first met Smith he had taken a dislike to him for no special reason. Now he had a reason. The police sirens sounded very close and Smith was going to cost him his last chance for an alibi.
Or was he? Maybe this was a good time to mix business and pleasure.
He came up from his crouch throwing a long right hook. He wanted to aim it at Smith’s jaw but he couldn’t afford any luxuries and he opened his hand at the last split-second and smacked the guy across the face with his palm. It was like slapping a hitching post. Then his own head jerked suddenly, jerked again. For a few seconds he couldn’t understand what was happening. His head jerked three more times. Finally he got it. The big square shoulders in front of him were twitching as Smith let him have short hard hooks. They hurt. They hurt worse than any punches Russ had thrown. There was a ripping twist on the end of each one.
If this went on much longer he could stop looking for an alibi and start looking for a face. He ducked, charged blindly into the grinding blows, went lurching past Smith and out onto the pavement and tripped and went down in the gutter. Brakes squealed near his head. He lay there panting and saw feet beginning to gather around him. Somebody reached down, hoisted him to his feet, clamped him tight so he couldn’t fall.
“What goes on, Carse?” somebody asked.
He got his eyes into focus and saw that he was jammed up against a big easily breathing chest that sported a starshaped hunk of metal. From inside the chest came a rumble and over his head a voice said, “Had to cool down a feller thought it was his night to howl.”
“Looks like the guy we had a call on. We’ll take him off your hands, Carse.”
The chest vibrated again. “Can if you want. Man’s a tourist, though. Happened to meet him today and know where he’s staying. I could just as easy park him back at the tourist court.”
A hand lifted Bill’s chin and he saw a cop peering at him. The cop shook his head. “Carse,” he said, “you sure do work a man over fast. Well, we have no real charge against him and if he’s a tourist and you want to go to the trouble—”
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“All right, Carse. Mighty obliged.”
The cop m
oved away and the prowl car went into gear and eased off down the street.
“How you feeling, Wayne?” Smith said.
“I’ll feel better when you let me breathe.”
Smith released him and stepped back a pace and brushed off his shirt. There were some dark splotches on it and Smith looked at them sadly. “Pardner,” he said, “you messed up this here shirt.”
“Sorry. When I get cut up I have a bad habit of bleeding.”
“That’s just a bloody nose, Wayne. Ain’t hardly worth a mention.”
“If you had it I bet it would be worth a mention.”
“Seems like I ain’t met many fellers can give me one. Got my car down the street, Wayne. Give you a lift back to the court. But first let’s take a look at this guy you was scrapping with.” He took a firm hold of Bill’s arm and led him into the alley and bent to examine the soldier. “Reckon he’s all right,” he said.
“The MPs will scoop him up. Pardner, seems to me you pick on kinda little fellers.”
“I picked on you too, remember?”
“Mighty foolish thing, Wayne. You try that on some peace officers and you could wind up shot. But I don’t reckon in the dark you could see who you was jumping. Well, let’s mosey to the car.”
He led the way down the street. After they climbed into the convertible Smith got a canteen from the glove compartment and splashed water on a handkerchief and handed it over. Bill dabbed at his face with it as the convertible headed back to the tourist court. The wet cloth and cold night wind cut into bruised places like salt. They whisked past the park where the .45 was hidden and raced up to the tourist court and came to a screeching stop at the curb. Smith got out and escorted him toward his room. They had almost reached it when the door of another cottage opened and light washed over them and Holly Clark peered out.
Say It With Bullets Page 5