“Why, Mr. Burbridge,” drawled Sarina, “I never imagined you could be so sentimental.”
“Five hundred dollars?” he asked. She shook her head. “Seven hundred and fifty? That—that’s as high as I can go ...”
“I’m sure there’ll be others,” she murmured, ‘‘whose bids will be far higher.”
“It’s only a book after all,” he protested.
“Burbridge,” said Bill, “you know better than that. You know it ain’t just any book. It’s Jessie’s history of the old Joyhouse—everything she remembered about the men that hung around there night after night, the things they talked about, the plans they made, all the braggin’ …”
“All right, Swann, all right ...!” Burbridge’s face was paler now. “You don’t have to spell it out for me!” He eyed Sarina earnestly. “I could borrow a few hundred— maybe raise my bid to fifteen hundred dollars.”
“I expect bids far in excess of that figure, Mr. Burbridge,” said Sarina.
The hotelkeeper shrugged helplessly, turned and trudged from the room. As the door closed behind him, Bill looked at Sarina and said, quietly, “So now it starts.”
“Now it starts,” she nodded.
“Burbridge was only desperate and scared,” he pointed out. “Others will be desperate, scared and violent—mark my words.”
“Don’t worry,” she frowned. “I’m following mother’s advice—about hiring a bodyguard.”
“Bought yourself a gun sinister, huh?” he challenged.
“A what?”
“A gun sinister. That’s an expression I once heard, Sarina. There was this parson, a travellin’ sin-killer that drifted through Cadiz City once. He used that expression to describe any hombre that hired out as a gunfighter. ‘All them that lives by the gun’ was what he said. I recall it as clear as if it was yesterday.”
“The man I’m hiring is not a professional gunman,” said Sarina. “His name is Rand …”
“Same hombre that fazed the bandidos yesterday— broke up the raid on the stagecoach?”
“Yes. He was a sergeant of cavalry until just recently. He’s rough in many ways, but I consider him a gentleman. I think you’d approve of him, Bill.”
“Already met him. He stopped by the saloon last night—showin’ that picture and askin’ if I’d ever spotted this Jenner, the sidewinder that killed his brother. We talked some. Sure, Sarina, I’d say Big Jim is a good man—but does he know just why you need a bodyguard? Did you tell him the whole score?”
“Not all of it,” she shrugged. “But he’ll learn soon enough, Bill. All he needs to do is buy a paper.”
Within die next forty-five minutes, several townsmen paid courtesy calls on the daughter of Jessie Kingston. They were scrupulously polite and almost comically eager to acquire the item advertised in the Clarion. Sarina courteously but firmly rejected their offers; the highest bid to date was seventeen hundred and thirty dollars.
Karl Dreisser was reading the Clarion’s report of the attempted stage hold-up while partaking of a late breakfast in his suite at the Imperial. His reading of the report was interrupted—as was his breakfast—when his eyes fastened upon the “For Sale” ad. His pulse quickened and a nerve began twitching at his temple. His memory began working and, like all the guilty of Cadiz County, he feared the worst. Many months had passed since he had recruited Leon Rodney to the shabby cause of conspiracy and subterfuge, the trafficking in secret information, but Dreisser’s memory was clear. Where had he first made contact with Rodney? Where had they discussed terms and plotted ways and means by which the traitor was to maintain contact with the KD outfit? At the Joyhouse, of course. He could even remember that big Jessie had intruded on their privacy several times. Had she eavesdropped outside the door of that small back room?
“Very clever, Jessie,” he reflected. “I underestimated you. To me, you were just another saloonkeeper, a backslapping old no-account. Men didn’t care if you overheard their conversation, because you were everybody’s friend. And, all the time, you were filling a diary—filling it with dynamite.”
He indulged in some deep thinking as he bathed, shaved and donned his clothes. It would be easy enough, he supposed, to offer to purchase the diary from its new owner. But to do so would be tantamount to admitting that he had something to hide. Better to try other methods first. The diary was sealed—so the advertisement claimed.
A local attorney had applied his seal and had then sworn an affidavit to the effect that he had no knowledge of the book’s contents. Who might that lawyer be? Old Caleb Wilkinson was Dreisser’s first guess. Cadiz City had a fast-growing population and no fewer than three resident attorneys, but Wilkinson was the oldest. Also he was the only one who tipped his hat to Jessie in public. The other two—younger men—eyed her askance; they were intent on attracting a respectable clientele.
Within a few minutes of quitting the Hotel Imperial, he was seated in the office rented by the bespectacled, gruff-voiced old attorney with the heavily lined countenance and the wispy white hair. Would he mind discussing the Kingston will? Not at all—provided he wasn’t asked to betray any confidences.
“It’s just that I’m curious,” Dreisser explained, “about the unconventional methods used by Mrs. Kingston. I mean—in the matter of bequeathing her diary to her daughter.”
“Ah, yes.” The old lawyer nodded and sighed. “But then Jessie always was unpredictable.” He squinted toward the open window, his expression wistful. “A fine woman, Mr. Dreisser. I think whoever coined the term ‘rough diamond’ had Jessie Kingston in mind.” He began reminiscing. Dreisser sat quiet, puffing at a cigar and appearing perfectly relaxed. Secretly, he was congratulating himself. He hadn’t hoped it would be quite this easy. There was no need for him to question Wilkinson. This mumbling old goat was spilling it all, telling him everything he needed to know. “Nothing at all,” Wilkinson said in conclusion. “Nothing but the old diary. She felt very guilty on that score, poor soul. Wanted to leave her only child a substantial inheritance, guarantee her financial security and so forth. Of course it was impossible. She was far from solvent at the time of her death.”
“So there was nothing she could leave to her daughter,” mused Dreisser.
“Nothing except the diary,” Wilkinson shrugged, shook his head sadly. “For all it’s worth.”
“You don’t believe the memoirs of Jessie Kingston would be of any value?” challenged Dreisser.
“I doubt it,” said Wilkinson. “Jessie was poorly educated. I can’t imagine that her fumbling attempts at recording a history of Cadiz City could qualify as entertaining reading.”
“You don’t know the half of it, old-timer,” Dreisser was thinking. “Jessie wasn’t hoping to entertain anybody. All she wanted was to scare the daylights out of them.”
Aloud, he remarked, “I’m surprised that Jessie’s daughter should offer the diary for sale.”
“I’m not,” frowned the lawyer. “After all, she had lost contact with her mother. There isn’t a great deal of sentiment involved here, Mr. Dreisser. Why shouldn’t she sell the book? She may as well capitalize on her only legacy. We’re here today—gone tomorrow …”
“Pardon?” said Dreisser.
“Another old saying,” Wilkinson reminded him. “Here today—gone tomorrow. Who can say when his time will come? Mrs. Hale could catch pneumonia at any time, or fall down a flight of stairs, or in front of a team of horses. In the midst of life, we are in death ...”
“Let us hope,” said Dreisser, with a fine show of solicitude, “that the lady may look forward to many years of good health—free of fatal accidents.”
“By all means,” agreed Wilkinson.
When he left the lawyer’s office, the plan was already forming in Dreisser’s mind. The situation, he assured himself, was not quite as complicated as he had supposed. No citizen of Cadiz County could hope to out-bid him, be it for the purchase of a horse, a few lush acres, a coveted surrey or wagon—or the diary of Jessie Ki
ngston.
It took him only a short time to ascertain such details as were important to his plan of attack. Disgruntled towners quitting the Territorial Hotel were only too willing to pause and converse with the well-heeled, free-spending owner of KD, and to talk of their futile attempts to acquire the inflammable tome bequeathed to Sarina Hale. They complained that the book, heavily sealed, was in plain sight during their unsuccessful negotiations with the heiress, and that she seemed to be enjoying their discomfort.
Outside the Kress Emporium, Dreisser found the KD ranch-wagon and, tethered beside the wagon-team, a couple of KD saddle horses. His chuck-boss had come to town to purchase supplies, and a couple of his hired guns had come along for the ride. He ran them to ground in a bar known as Rigo’s Cantina. They hastened to assure him that they had the ramrod’s permission to come to town, but he cut short their explanations and delivered a terse order.
“Ride back to KD in a hurry. Tell Rio to meet me on the porch of the Imperial just as fast as his horse can tote him.”
Ascertaining the number and location of Sarina’s room was no difficult chore. Having done so, he retired to the porch of the Imperial to await the coming of his chief gunman. The liquidation of a member of the opposite sex would cause Rio Purdew no heart-searching, no qualms at all. The man was as much a killing instrument as were the pearl-butted .45s slung low on his thighs, or the rifle that always travelled in his saddle-scabbard.
Meanwhile, Big Jim and Benito were making no progress in their quest for information regarding the possible movements of the elusive Jenner. Cadiz City was a big town. Their investigations might take longer than Jim had anticipated. It was around a quarter to noon when, after a fruitless interrogation of the staff of an uptown saloon, the big man was reminded by his runty shadow, “Should we not keep an eye on the senora, amigo? We are gone from the hotel all morning.”
“I guess we ought to go back and check on her,” Jim grudgingly agreed. “It’s hard to remember the Hale woman—and whatever her problem might be—when the next hombre I talk to might be the one who saw Jenner.”
“We go back to the hotel?” prodded Benito.
“Just long enough,” nodded Jim, “to make sure she’s okay.”
They passed the saloon at which Bill Swann was now employed, on the way back to the hotel. Jim thought to pause there and ascertain whether or not the burly barkeep was on duty. He was.
“Can’t spend all my time sittin’ guard on Sarina,” he told Jim. “Not if I hope to keep this job.”
“She’s alone now?” demanded Jim.
“She was when I left,” said Bill. “Since then, all Cadiz City could have stopped by the Territorial. She tells me you’ve agreed to play bodyguard.”
“More or less,” said Jim.
“Better make it more,” frowned Bill. “That little lady’s apt to need a heap of protection pretty soon.”
“Exactly why ...?” began Jim.
“It would take a lot of explainin’,” muttered Bill, “and I’d as soon you got it from her.”
A few moments later, when he entered the lobby of the Territorial with Benito in tow, Jim sensed the impending danger, the threat, the ominous atmosphere. There was, at first, nothing he could put his finger on. Burbridge was behind the reception desk, gnawing on his fingernails and looking like the condemned man awaiting the arrival of the warden, the preacher and the hangman. Several locals were descending the stairs. Their faces were angry, but they weren’t giving voice to their anger.
Not until they had climbed the stairs to the second floor did they hear voices raised in anger. From the open doorway of Sarina’s room, the voices were audible—and then some. Jim’s face hardened, as one voice was raised higher than the others.
“… a cunning female like you—coming to this town to bring us to our knees! You’re no better than your mother was—and she was good for nothing!”
A grim tableau was being enacted, as the big man entered the room. There were eight men present. Sarina stood beside the upholstered chair, her mother’s diary held to her bosom, her eyes flashing in bitter indignation. That was the emotion she expressed right now. Indignation—not fear. One of the men—he of the loudest voice—had lost all control of his temper and was actually brandishing a six-shooter.
“We plead—and you laugh in our faces!” he snarled. “All right, woman, I’m through pleading! You’re gonna make me a present of that damn-blasted diary! Hand it over ...!”
He was about to thumb back the hammer, when Jim buffeted him, clamped his right hand about the loading cylinder and began wresting the weapon from his grasp. The man gave vent to a gasp of pain and, rather than suffer a broken finger, unhooked it from the trigger-guard. Jim passed the weapon to Benito, seized a fistful of the man’s coat-collar and barked a challenge.
“What in blazes were you about to do? Since when do the men of Cadiz City gang up on a defenseless woman?”
“This is none of your business!”
Unwisely, the towner struck out at the big man. One fist slammed hard against Jim’s jaw, but it might have been a blow struck by a child for all the discomfort it caused him. The other fist pounded that section of Jim’s anatomy immediately above the buckle of his pants-belt, and Jim didn’t as much as wince. But it was past time for discouraging this hothead, so he bunched his own left and threw a short, devastating blow that exploded against the man’s jaw with all the impact of a mule’s kick. Simultaneously, he released his grip of the man’s coat-collar and his victim hurtled backwards across the room, colliding with a couple of his grim-visaged companions.
While Benito brandished the commandeered pistol, Jim stepped over to where Sarina stood, planted himself beside her and subjected the visitors to a scathing scrutiny.
“Are all these galoots,” he coldly enquired of Sarina, “here at your invitation?”
“They came to make bids for the purchase of my mother’s diary,” she told him, and her voice was steady.
“We came to be blackmailed!” scowled another man. He was quite old, so was in no danger of being attacked by Jim. “That’s about the size of it, lady, and you know it. You ain’t sellin’ a book. You’re invitin’ us to pay old Jessie to keep her mouth shut. Sure, your mother’s dead, but that’s all it amounts to. Until that durn book is burned, Jessie can still threaten us—through you.”
“What the ...?” began Jim.
“One important point you overlook, gentlemen,” drawled Sarina. “Jessie Kingston was no liar—which means you have nothing to fear but the truth.” She repeated, the word, louder and with relish. “The truth!”
The sharp-pointed barb seemed to cower them. There followed a tight, tense silence during which the man struck by Jim was helped to his feet. His mouth was bloody, his face ashen. When he broke the silence, his voice was very soft.
“I’ll take my gun now. Don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going. No use pleading with this woman. She’ll hold out for every dollar she can get, and there’s not one of us could raise more than four-five-hundred.” He wiped his mouth with a kerchief and confronted Benito, held out a hand, “It’s all right, Mex. I wouldn’t use it.”
“Amigo Jim?” prodded Benito.
“He can have his gun,” muttered Jim, “after you’ve drawn its teeth.”
Deftly, Benito unloaded the Colt and returned it to its owner, who holstered it and, after a last resentful glare at Sarina, slouched out of the room. The other men followed. Three of them indicated their disrespect for the young widow by donning their hats before moving out into the corridor. Benito closed the door, perched on a chair and lit a cigarillo. Cheerfully, he remarked, “These hombres were muy irritado, I think.”
“That’s putting it mild,” growled Jim. He stared hard at Sarina, as she walked to the small table, placed the diary on it and then returned to the upholstered chair to seat herself. “How long has this been going on?”
“You mean the bids for the diary,” she asked, “or the threats?
”
“Let’s start with the threats,” he grimly suggested.
“Well …” She shrugged and smiled. “None of the others have resorted to threats, but I imagine there’ll be more men calling on me so I’m glad you’re standing by, Mr. Rand.”
“Don’t thank your bodyguards before they’ve saved your hide,” he advised. “I don’t think that jasper meant to shoot you. I think he was trying to frighten you ...”
“And he succeeded,” she soberly assured him. “It’s an unnerving experience—having a six-gun brandished in your face.”
“There’s a lot you haven’t told me about that book,” he accused, “and I mean a whole lot.”
As he started toward the table, she called after him. “Don’t break the seal. Handle it carefully.”
Just as Jim reached the table, Benito’s eye fell upon something left behind by one of Sarina’s unwelcome visitors, a rumpled copy of the latest edition of the Clarion. He picked it up, smoothed it out and inspected the front page. Jim, frowning down at the book, observed, “It’s a diary. That’s a little detail you neglected to mention, Mrs. Hale.”
“While we were having lunch yesterday,” she sadly reminded him, “we were on first name terms. Now you’ve become formal again.”
“Only my friends call me by my first name,” he countered. “All of a sudden I’m not sure if I’d want you for a friend.” He studied the inscription on the cover. “This is your mother’s diary.”
“And I’m sure it would make interesting reading,” said Sarina. “But I’ll never read it, of course. It has to be sold as it is—with the seal unbroken.”
“Perdonar, senora,” frowned Benito. “I am ignorant of such matters, but is it customary for such an advertisement to be found on the front page of a gringo gaceta?”
“Let me see that,” demanded Jim. He took the newspaper from the Mex and, rightaway, the boxed advertisement clamored for his attention. After reading every word of the ad, he eyed Sarina coldly. “You weren’t completely frank with me yesterday. If you want my help, you’d better come up with a few extra details.”
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