He was going to be unpopular when they sorted out that mess. He ran down the rest of the way and burrowed through the crowd and had almost reached the door when people on the stairway began pointing down at him and yelling stop that guy he’s a killer. Right away the people in front of him wished they were the people in back of him. A lane opened up as if he were following an invisible bulldozer and he raced through it and out the doorway.
He sprinted down the street toward the nearest corner. Nobody was in his way. Nobody was on the sidewalk at all. Not ahead of him, that is. Behind him they were pouring out into the street and setting up the long wild howl of a crowd with something to chase. He darted around the corner and raced down the next block and above the thump of blood in his head heard the clatter of footsteps gaining on him. This wouldn’t last long. He made the corner and turned it and flung himself into a doorway just around the corner. He shucked off the coat, stuffed the gun inside, dropped it. Three men pounded around the corner and past him before they saw the street was empty. He leaped out and ran into them as they stopped.
“There he goes!” he yelled. “Down that alley!”
When a mob got started it didn’t take much to keep it going. The three men sprinted ahead blindly toward the alley and other men boiled around the corner and followed. Bill kept up with the leaders for a few paces and then gradually lagged and let some of the others pull ahead. This was working out all right. When two more men passed him he would stop with a painful stitch in the side. Maybe nobody would be able to identify him now as the man who had fled from the gambling club. Most people didn’t have photographic memories: a face flashes past them and they get the sort of fuzzy snapshot a kid takes with his first box camera. As soon as two more men passed he might be safe.
Atta boy, there goes one: a nice clean-living youngster with a good pair of lungs and the stride of a miler. Number Two was right behind his own shoulder. Number Two wasn’t passing him very fast, though. Probably out of condition, didn’t take good care of himself. He slowed to give Number Two a chance. Number Two was playing out, however. A hollow shell of a guy. Number Two’s footsteps kept pace with his own slowing ones. He didn’t want to glance over his shoulder. Looking back in a chase like this was a suspicious move. But he couldn’t help it. He looked back.
About that hollow shell stuff—how wrong can a guy be? This was nature’s gift to the wide open spaces. Running easily, right behind his shoulder, was Deputy Sheriff Carson Smith. And there was a look on Smith’s face that made you think of a prairie wolf running down a lone calf.
Eleven
For a moment he panicked. He put his head down and sprinted. The pavement started sliding by under his feet in a smooth blur and a couple of the figures running ahead of him got larger. The quick hard rasp of footsteps just behind him kept pace. He couldn’t shake off the sound. He tried to sprint faster. That didn’t work. His head was jerking up as he strained for air and his knees were pumping too high. The blur of the sidewalk broke up into jumpy streaks.
He glanced back again. Smith was loping along easily. You could almost imagine him lolling out a big red tongue and showing long teeth and grinning like a wolf at the end of a chase.
“Looks like yore playing out on me, pardner,” Smith called.
That was the clincher. The guy was not only keeping up with him but also had enough spare breath to get talkative. He himself didn’t have enough spare breath to blow out a match. It would be nice if he had, because a lot of matches seemed to be flaring up inside his chest. He stopped. A lot of men went pounding past him, but Smith stopped too, and lounged against a wall watching him fight for air.
He managed finally to get a breath of air that wasn’t filled with smoke and sparks, and gasped, “What are you waiting for?”
“Just bein’ sociable,” Smith said blandly. “Thought I might jog along with you some more when you got your breath.”
That wasn’t what he had expected. When he asked what Smith was waiting for, he was thinking in terms of handcuffs. Maybe he had been wrong. Perhaps Smith didn’t know he was the man everybody was chasing. Smith might not have seen him come rocketing out of the gambling club. Smith might not know there had been another killing. And the guy couldn’t know that the dead man was named Frankie and was the person both of them had come to Reno to find. There were a lot of mights and perhapses and maybes in that. Against them you had to weigh the wolf grin that kept twitching Carson Smith’s mouth. When you put everything on the scales the balance was dangerously even. Maybe—here comes another maybe—Smith wasn’t quite sure of the exact score and was waiting for him to make a move that would confirm his suspicions. If so—yeah, let’s try an if for a change—this would take careful handling.
“You have plenty of wind left,” he said. “I haven’t. Maybe you can catch the guy.”
“What would I do with this feller if I caught him?”
“Run him in. Arrest him. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Smith said. “Lot of fellers come rootin’ and tootin’ by me and I come along to see the fun. What would this feller have done?”
Was this on the level? He didn’t want to bet on it. “I was playing the slot machines in a club on Virginia Street and some guy ran out with a lot of people screaming after him. Maybe he pulled a holdup.”
“This here’s a no-good town to pull a holdup in. Ain’t but a few roads out of Reno. What with mountains and deserts they’re right easy to block off. Feller won’t get out of town.”
“You might grab some credit if you caught him.”
“Shucks, I don’t know,” Smith said. His coat fell open as he lounged against the wall of a building and the star on his left breast pocket winked. Next to it something else winked from a shoulder holster. “Don’t hardly seem right to come into another man’s corral and rustle off one of his killings.”
The night air began making ice cubes on his sweating skin. He said hoarsely. “Why are you talking about a killing? Don’t you mean a holdup?”
“Did I say a killing? Shore, a holdup. But now rein in there, pardner. Didn’t I hear a couple fellers yelling it was a killing as I come by them? Can’t rightly recollect. But if I did hear fellers say that, it could have stuck in my head. But you say it was just a holdup?”
Getting words out was like pulling fish hooks up his throat. “I was taking a guess. It could have been a killing. It could have been a holdup. Or both. How do I know?”
“Shore, shore,” Smith said soothingly. “I figgered mebbe you knowed the answer on account of you was may up there in the bunch chasing the feller when I caught sight of you. Wasn’t you right on the feller’s heels at one time?”
That grin was on Smith’s face again. You read about wolves circling a herd and making little dashes forward hoping to start a stampede. Was Smith playing that game or was he just dumb? “I don’t think I was in the lead,” he mumbled. “There were always a few ahead of me.”
“You get a good look at this feller, Wayne?”
“Dark trousers, no hat, a coat flapping open, that’s all.”
“A coat is a mighty handy thing in this country at night. It can chill off right fast. You ought to wear a coat, Wayne. Shirt of yours is sopping wet. Man can catch his death of cold or something.”
Or something. Why did he throw that in? “You’re probably right,” he said. “Maybe I’d better get inside somewhere.”
“You don’t want to do that yet awhile, pardner. You got to take it slow, like cooling out a horse by walking him after he gets all lathered up. Come on. I’ll walk you around a piece.”
This added up like a wolf worrying over whether a sheep has enough wool on to keep warm. He didn’t know what he could do about it, though. He started walking slowly down the street with Smith beside him.
The chase had flooded far past, leaving driftwood patches of men who had given up. Some of them were talking about whether or not the leaders had caught the fleeing man.
“
Shucks,” Smith said. “I don’t reckon they’ll catch nothing. These city fellers don’t know the first thing about a chase. You ever tracked a coyote, Wayne? A smart coyote will double back on his trail so fast you’ll get dizzy watching him. I bet me and you have as good a chance of running into that feller anywhere along here as the fellers up front have of catching him. You figger you’d spot this feller if you seen him, Wayne?”
“I might.”
“No use moseyin’ along nowhere while you get cooled out. Tell you what. I’ve chased a lot of coyotes. Just for fun let’s me and you figger where this coyote might have gone, and see can we walk him down. He might have doubled back into a doorway right after turning that corner way back there. Then after some of the fellers ran by he could have chased along with the rest of the pack and right about here he could have figgered it was safe to turn off. How does that listen to you?”
That was pretty accurate, except for the part about turning off here. He tried to study the expression on Smith’s face, but the broad-brimmed hat threw deep harsh shadows on it and all he could see was a gun-metal glint of eyes. “It sounds like nonsense.”
“Well, let’s find out,” Smith said cheerily, gripping bis arm and swinging him into the side street.
That made Smith ninety-nine percent right. The hunted man had turned off there. The thing on which Smith was one percent wrong was that the hunted man didn’t figure it was safe. But if Smith was suspicious, the only chance he had was to go along with him, acting innocent. It began to look as if he had underrated the guy right from the start. It now seemed possible that Smith used his head for other purposes than as a hitching post for a Stetson.
They walked down the side street, and in a couple of blocks Smith made another guess about where the hunted man had gone and they turned up another street. It was very quiet out here. Houses were getting farther apart and no lights gleamed in them. The sound of Smith’s boot heels echoed hollowly, as if they were walking inside a giant empty barrel. The sound blended with the tap of blood in his head until it felt like a tiny hammer striking his skull. “Just a little piece more. University of Nevada campus is up here this way. Reckon it’s a lively place with the boys around. kinda dead now.”
Kinda dead. The campus and Bill Wayne had a lot in common.
“You know what?” Smith said. “I run out of the makings. You got some tailor-mades on you, Wayne?”
His cigarettes and matches were in his coat, back in that doorway. “No,” he said. “I don’t have any.”
“That’s a funny thing. Most times I seen you, you been smoking.”
“I just don’t happen to have any.”
“Funny thing, ain’t it?” Smith said. “Well, we come quite a piece. You figger that feller might have come all the way up here?”
Bill took a deep breath that went down his windpipe like an icicle. He didn’t like the sound of Smith’s question. He hadn’t liked any sounds from the moment he heard the thump of Smith’s feet running behind him, but this was the worst. If Smith enjoyed using that gun in his shoulder holster he would never get a better chance. Deputy Sheriff Kills Gunman in Marathon Chase. Maybe Smith hadn’t been suspicious at all. Maybe he had been sure right from the start. A fast way to find out was to make a break for it. He didn’t like that way.
“Well, what about it?” Smith said, grinning. “Do you figger he came up here?”
Bill set his feet, got ready to move fast. “Yeah,” he said. “I think he did.”
That jolted the guy. It knocked the grinning mask off his face and left a snarl. That did it. Bill started a right hook. He put his shoulder and body and toes into it. It slammed into the big square jaw and sent sparks whipping up his arm. Smith lurched backward, clawing at his shoulder holster, wide open for more hooks. Bill threw them into him, short jarring hooks into face and ribs and stomach. This was good. This was great. He
liked this. Smith crashed back against a tree and sagged there and Bill planted himself solidly and let go big crazy swings and watched Smith come forward in a slow toppling fall.
He stared at the man on the ground. His hands ached and he was breathing hard but he felt good. He had actually taken the guy: a tribute to good clean living and getting in the first fifty punches. Smith had been so anxious to use the gun that he had forgotten he could have won the brawl with his fists.
He knelt and examined the guy. Smith was not going to be reaching for his gun within the next few minutes. But when he did, it might be nice if he had to hunt for it. Bill reached into the shoulder holster and dragged it out. He broke it open, shucked out the cartridges, threw them in one direction and the revolver in another. Then, just to be safe, he patted Smith’s pockets. It turned out he was Two-Gun Smith. His hip pocket carried an enormous bulge. Bill pulled out the weapon, looked at it, shivered. It was his .45 automatic. Smith must have seen him coming out of that doorway where he had dropped his coat, and had paused long enough to grab the coat and find the .45 and bring it along. Smith had certainly planned to have the case all wrapped up. He didn’t seem to have overlooked any angles except that a sock on the jaw is worth two guns in the holster.
He stuck the .45 under his belt and covered it with his shirt and started back toward the center of town. In one way the fight had left him keyed up and slightly drunk. In another way it had left him with a hangover. Actually he wasn’t much better off than before, except that he was still alive. He was in favor of staying alive but probably a lot of people would vote against it. He had three problems.
The first was Carson Smith. Fortunately Smith wasn’t likely to go to the Reno cops with his story; if the story got out he would never live it down. But Smith did know where to start looking for him. It would be very unsafe for him to rejoin Treasure Trip of the Old West or even try to pick up his things at the tourist court.
The second problem was the Reno cops. They might or might not have a good description of him. They would be combing the town and setting up road blocks at the outskirts. A lone man wandering around town, or trying to check in at a hotel or tourist court, might arouse suspicion. He had to find a place to hide until morning.
His third problem was the guy who had shot Frankie Banta. Only two of the crowd were left now: Cappy Judd and Domenic Ferrante. One of them was in Reno and had done the job. It was possible that the guy named Wayne had outlived his usefulness and had been promoted to number one on the hit parate. It was also possible that he could be useful in taking the rap for one more murder.
He was interested in staying useful for a while. And besides, finding Cappy or Domenic and making one of them talk was his only hope of clearing up the mess. So what he had to do was hide until morning and then grab the first bus to Frisco. The prospects of getting away safely on the bus didn’t look good. On the other hand, if he tried to stay around Reno he wasn’t likely to last as long as a divorce hearing in Washoe County Courthouse.
He walked south until he found a bridge over the Truckee River, and threw the .45 upstream. According to tradition, the girls threw their wedding rings into the Truckee after getting their decrees. If they did, no doubt some canny citizens made a business of fishing out the rings and might find the .45 and wonder if one of the girls had been too impatient to wait for a divorce. But frankly, he didn’t believe the tradition. Women were practical about jewelry; if they threw anything into the river it was probably something they got for box tops. Anyway the .45 had a dull gray finish and might be mistaken for a rock. Anyway he had no choice.
There were, he remembered, a couple of park areas downriver which might be good places to hide until morning. He headed that way. He had almost reached the first one when he saw a car combing the park with a spotlight. Well, he hadn’t really wanted to spend a lonely night in a park, anyway. Maybe he could mingle with the crowds downtown and walk around until he thought up a better idea. He turned north and then east and arrived back on Virginia Street, where some of the biggest gambling clubs were located.
Before yo
u can mingle with a crowd, Wayne, you have to find a crowd.
Virginia Street was deserted. The Biggest Little Town in the World looked as lively as a Sunday School on Saturday night. Of course the answer was easy. Everybody was inside the clubs. As he passed lighted entrances he saw crowds hanging over gambling games, as sober and intent as surgeons around an operation. He wandered aimlessly, trying to decide what to do. Once he passed the doorway where he had hidden to let the leaders of the mob chase by. His coat was still there. He emptied the pockets and dropped it in a sidewalk trash container. Let the cops make something out of that if they could. Let—
Speaking of cops, here comes a prowl car. The boys may feel lonely with nobody on the streets and be looking for company.
A doorway threw a welcome mat of light across the sidewalk in front of him. He walked through the doorway and found himself in one of the big clubs. If he wanted a crowd to hide in, here it was. And maybe this was the last place where anybody would look for him. Of course he would have to face the hideout problem all over again when the club closed.
He stopped an attendant and asked, “How late do you stay open?”
“How late? We don’t ever close.”
“You mean people are gambling here all the time?”
“Sure. Five in the morning. Seven. Right around the clock. You don’t even have to go out to eat. If you want some sandwiches or anything just speak up.”
Or anything, huh? It would be nice if he could order a new face, preferably one not as plain and certainly not as well-known as the one he was wearing. He began the long dull process of killing time until morning. Gambling with money looked tame compared to what he was doing. He wandered from one game to another, making a small bet now and then to pretend he was interested.
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