“I’m sure Mrs. Hale appreciates your attitude, Mr. Dreisser,” drawled Jim, as he dawdled across to perch on the window-ledge.
“Uh—yes,” frowned Dreisser. “Well—so long as she understands ...”
“I understand,” murmured Sarina. “And thank you for calling, Mr. Dreisser.”
“The call isn’t entirely social,” Dreisser gravely informed her. “I hoped we might talk a little business.”
Sarina, studying him intently, couldn’t resist saying: “It’s hard for me to believe that such a fine gentleman could be mentioned in my mother’s diary.”
“I thank you for that compliment, ma’am,” he smiled. “No, I doubt if Jessie ever had cause to write about me. I’m not much different from any other cattleman. A mite richer than most, I guess. Had me a few good seasons. Also, whenever I gamble—no matter if it’s roulette or faro or the dice—I always get lucky.”
“That’s something to brag about,” Jim commented.
“But you do want to buy the diary?” prodded Sarina.
“If it’s the book I once saw in your mother’s possession,” nodded Dreisser. “About—so big?” He gestured to indicate the size of the tome. “Morocco-bound, with a gold-embossed cover?”
“You describe mother’s diary quite accurately,” said Sarina.
“Well,” said Dreisser, “I figure it’s the only one of its kind, you know? Always did have a hunch Jessie got it made to order. To a collector, it’d be quite an acquisition, Mrs. Hale, and ...”
“That’s kind of a pastime with you?” Jim interrupted. “You’re a book-collector?”
“Books,” shrugged Dreisser. “Old weapons—arrowheads and the like. I’m interested in antiques. Of course Jessie’s diary doesn’t quite qualify as an antique, but it could be described as rare. Anyway, I’d sure like to own it, so ...” He grinned complacently at the glowing tip of his cigar. “If the lady will name the highest bid she’s had so far ...?”
Instinctively, Sarina glanced toward the window. Dreisser wasn’t watching her, when Jim caught her eye and raised his left hand, with the fingers and thumb spread. Very calmly, she said, “Five, Mister Dreisser. Five thousand dollars.”
And, just as calmly, Dreisser said, “I’m glad you didn’t accept that offer, ma’am. To a collector of my expensive tastes, that book is worth all of six thousand—and that’s what I’m bidding.”
“If she settles for his six thousand,” Jim was thinking, “I may never get at the truth.”
He couldn’t pantomime another signal, because Dreisser was eyeing Sarina expectantly.
Nine – Prelude to a Dead Reckoning
Squatting near the door, Benito Espina had become a bug-eyed, open-mouthed statue. All it took to freeze him was to hear an apparently sane hombre offering the sum of six thousand dollars for—ai caramba!—un libro! A book!
Jim impassively studied the people passing by along the main stem, while Sarina smiled politely at Dreisser and said:
“I believe I should wait a little longer.”
“Wait?” blinked Dreisser. “Surely, ma’am, you aren’t expecting any higher bids?”
“Until this moment,” she countered, “I honestly didn’t believe there’d be an offer higher than five thousand. So—it might be a mistake—my selling the diary right away. Let me have time to think it over, please?”
“Chances of anybody out-bidding me,” Dreisser warned, “are about one in—in six thousand.”
“You’re probably right about that,” she nodded. “But I’ll wait a while. In any case ...” She raised a hand to her brow, “I’m suddenly very tired. I guess it’s the reaction.”
“I heard of your narrow escape, ma’am,” said Dreisser, as he got to his feet, “and I’m thankful you weren’t critically injured.”
“No thanks to the jasper that made the effort,” drawled Jim. He was, at this moment, very grateful to Sarina Hale, and she had risen in his estimation. For a while there, he had feared she would jump at Dreisser’s offer. Six thousand dollars was a lot of temptation. “And now—we’d best let the lady rest.”
He slid from the window-ledge, went to the corner to retrieve the two gunbelts, then escorted Dreisser out into the corridor. Benito stood by, watching them with interest, as they buckled on their side arms.
“That really was a generous offer,” said Dreisser. “I’m sure—after she’s had time to think it over—the lady will accept.”
“You’re probably right,” nodded Jim. “But then you know how women are. They don’t like to be hustled into a decision.”
“Well, I’ll be staying in town a few days,” smiled Dreisser, “so there’ll be ample opportunity for another visit.”
“Call again,” shrugged Jim, “by all means.”
They remained in the corridor, watching, until Dreisser had walked to the stairs and disappeared from view. Before re-entering Sarina’s room, Jim pantomimed for Benito to go to the stairs and check. Benito did that and, when he returned, reported, “He has left the hotel.”
“Bueno,” grunted Jim.
He knocked and, at Sarina’s call, re-entered the room with Benito following. Benito closed the door and sat with his back to it. Jim took the chair vacated by Dreisser. He didn’t much appreciate Sarina’s smile. She had sat up in bed and had wrapped a shawl about her shoulders. Her expression was one of confidence, or perhaps “complacency” would be a better word for it.
“You see?” she challenged. “Everything is working out just as I hoped. Six thousand dollars that last man offered. I need only wait—and I’m sure he’ll add another thousand to his bid.”
“Or,” said Jim, relentlessly, “he might kill you—and then help himself to the diary for free.”
“That man?” she gasped, with the color draining from her face.
“If I had to nominate a suspect,” frowned Jim, “this Dreisser is the first man I’d name.”
“This is rash talk,” she chided. “Look at you, Jim. You’ve been involved in a shooting affray. It’s little more than an hour since you had to kill a trigger-happy gunman. There’s blood on your clothes, and ...”
“And it’s only a scratch—and I’ve been doctored, thanks,” growled Jim. “Don’t try to convince me I’m talking rash, Sarina. I can make sense, believe me.”
“The very idea of Mr. Dreisser ...” she began.
She stopped talking abruptly. Somebody was rapping at the door, gently but insistently. Jim called a challenge and heard the familiar voice.
“Me—Bill Swann. And I’m alone.”
“Let him in,” Jim ordered the Mex.
The barkeep trudged in with his broad visage wrinkled in a frown. Benito closed the door and re-seated himself. Staring hard at Sarina, Bill shrugged helplessly and assured her:
“This ain’t what your ma wanted—and that’s for sure. If she’d ever believed ...”
He left the sentence unfinished and, in response to Jim’s nod, moved across to perch on the sofa.
“Thanks for worrying about me, Bill,” murmured Sarina. “I’m not badly hurt—honestly.”
“Only because you had crazy luck,” growled Bill. “I heard all about it.” He eyed Jim challengingly. “You figure it just had to be Purdew?”
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” said Jim. “I savvy firearms, Bill. His rifle had been discharged within five minutes of my challenging him. Also—if he had nothing to hide— why didn’t he volunteer the rifle for an examination?”
“So you shot it out with the almighty Rio Purdew,” mused Bill. “Mister—you’re gonna have quite a reputation in this town.” And then he noticed the condition of Jim’s shirt. “How in tarnation did he manage to crease you from behind? You never turned your back on him, did you?”
“I’d never turn my back on the likes of Purdew,” Jim assured him. “Somebody else cut this notch in my back—and I reckon I know who.”
“You gonna make a guess?” prodded Bill.
“It’s better than a guess,
” said Jim. “Purdew was on the payroll of a big shot rancher name of Dreisser ...”
“Everybody knows Dreisser,” frowned the barkeep. “He’s plenty rich, and he packs a heap of influence hereabouts.”
“He also packs a Colt,” muttered Jim, “with one discharged shell in the loading cylinder and, from the smell of it, I’d say that iron was fired about the same time I fought with Purdew—about the same time somebody took a shot at me from somewhere on this side of the street.”
Sarina was speechless. Benito whistled softly, and the barkeep said, “Are you claimin’ Dreisser ordered Purdew to kill Sarina?”
“Damn right,” nodded Jim, “and I know what you’re thinking. My hunch wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“And it was Dreisser took a shot at you—for the sake of givin’ Purdew an edge?” prodded Bill.
“Something like that,” said Jim.
“I don’t know if Sheriff Murch would go along with those hunches, mister.” Bill shook his head dubiously. “He admires Dreisser. As for Dreisser, he’d claim you’re guessin’ wild.”
“I realize what I’m up against,” Jim impatiently assured him. He eyed Sarina coldly. “Well? Do you still think it was a smart idea—trying to blackmail this whole town— making a target of yourself?” The sound of another knock drew his gaze to the door. “Another frightened fool wanting to bid for the book, I bet. Do you enjoy the feeling of power, Sarina?”
“Please,” she begged, “don’t leave me. I’m becoming confused. I—don’t know who I can trust ...”
Jim dropped his hand to the butt of his Colt, nodded to Benito.
“Let him in.”
The Mex turned the knob and pulled the door open. Leon Rodney stood on the threshold, blinking nervously. He was, of course, a stranger to all save Bill Swann, and Jim got the impression this small, apprehensive hombre was somewhat off-guard. His first words indicated a lack of imagination.
“I—hoped to—find the lady alone. My business with her is private.”
“Howdy, Mr. Rodney,” drawled Bill. “Come on in and shut the door.” He performed introductions. “Mr. Leon Rodney—Mrs. Sarina Hale. These gents are from out of town, you’ve very likely heard of ’em by now. Jim Rand and Benito Espina.”
And still Rodney lingered on the threshold, so that Sarina felt compelled to echo the barkeep’s invitation. “Please come in, Mister Rodney.”
“This is the day for making your bid,” Jim dryly informed him. “Everybody else is trying to buy the diary of Jessie Kingston—why should you be any exception?”
Rodney doffed his derby to Sarina, but was unable to look her in the eye. Jim detected a note of desperate dignity in his voice, as he asserted, “I certainly have no intention of trying to buy that diary—nor any reason for doing so. This call is purely social, I assure you. When—uh—when I heard of Mrs. Hale’s unfortunate experience, I felt the urge to—stop by and offer my sympathy—and my respects.”
“Right kindly of you, Mr. Rodney,” frowned Bill.
“I do appreciate it,” murmured Sarina.
“A terrible thing,” mumbled Rodney. “I can’t—can’t recall any other such occasion. A lady—shot at by a sniper—right here in Cadiz City.”
“The lady’s comin’ along fine,” said the barkeep.
“Mighty glad to hear that,” said Rodney. “Mighty glad indeed.” He nodded to Sarina again. “My compliments, ma’am, and may I wish you—uh—a rapid recovery?”
“Thank you,” she acknowledged.
Desperate dignity, Jim was thinking. Here was a man clinging tenaciously to whatever dignity he had ever possessed, a very troubled man. A very guilty man? Probably. Most likely, in fact. Jim found it hard to believe that Rodney had called merely to pay his respects. Had he found Sarina unattended, he would surely have made a bid for the diary; of this Jim was certain. The presence of two strange men and a well-known local bartender had robbed the visitor of his courage; his claim of wishing to pay his respects was naught but a subterfuge.
“I’ll intrude no longer,” mumbled Rodney.
And, abruptly, he was gone. Benito shrugged and grinned, swung the door shut and remarked, “One nervous hombre, eh?”
“That’s putting it mild,” muttered Jim.
“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” prodded Bill. “He lied? His real reason for comin’ here was ...?”
“He wants the diary,” nodded Jim. “Unlike the others, he hasn’t the nerve to admit it in front of witnesses—but he wants it.”
“Well,” sighed Bill, “poor Leon Rodney is gonna chew his fingernails clear down to his knuckles from now on, I bet.”
“He’s no different to the others,” opined Jim. “It seems every man has his guilty secrets.”
“In one way,” countered Bill, “he’s different to the others. It ain’t as if he’s just another barkeep or a tinhorn or a ribbon-clerk ...”
“What is his trade?” Jim demanded.
“Rodney’s a bank cashier,” muttered Bill. “You got to admit, Rand, a bank employee can’t afford for his reputation to be questioned. One black mark—and he’s out.”
“Which bank?”
Jim voiced that query quietly, while the memories flooded back into his brain, clamoring for his attention.
“The Southwest Security,” said Bill.
And now the memories were etched with compelling clarity. He could easily recall the words uttered by Dutton, the shotgun guard. “Almost every time a stage is toting cash or gold—there’s a raid. Somebody’s getting rich at the expense of the stage line, the banks, the insurance outfits ...” The contents of the strongbox on the northbound had been consigned to the Southwest Security; the manager had warmly thanked him for his intervention upon his arrival in Cadiz City.
He changed the subject.
“Bill—can you stay here and keep an eye on Sarina while she sleeps? She oughtn’t be left alone, and I have to go parlay with a certain party.”
“I can wait a spell, but not all day,” Bill told him. “I made Jessie a promise—only ...”
“Only you still have to earn a living,” murmured Sarina. “Well, I’m grateful to you, Bill, and I don’t expect you to sit guard on me all the time.” She looked at Jim, who was rising to his feet. “I thought I’d hired a bodyguard, but I’m afraid Jim doesn’t approve of me—or of what I’m doing.”
“You still have a bodyguard,” growled Jim. “Don’t worry, Sarina. I’m not quitting until I’ve flushed him into the open.”
“Who ...?” she began.
“The man who paid for the bullet fired at you by Purdew,” he muttered. Then, as he moved toward the door, he thought to ask the barkeep, “Are you packing a gun?”
“Got a pocket Colt on my hip,” Bill told him. “It’s only twenty-two caliber, but I guarantee those slugs’ll bite deep.”
“When you have to go,” said Jim, “would you loan your gun to Benito?”
“Be glad to,” shrugged Bill.
“I should stay and guard the senora?” Benito eagerly enquired.
“From outside,” Jim emphasized.
“I guess she’ll be sale enough,” mused Bill, “with a man sittin’ guard outside the door.”
“And the window shut,” said Jim. “and the shade drawn.” He nodded to Sarina. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be seeing you.”
As Jim returned to his room to don a clean shirt, he was still thinking about Karl Dreisser. Also he was remembering that Deputy Tarrant’s attitude to the KD boss was one of deep-rooted dislike. Tarrant didn’t impress him as being just another grudge-toter, just another sore-head. There had to be reasons for Tarrant’s thinly disguised animosity toward the man who had made the highest bid so far—six thousand dollars.
He would have been interested—and Deputy Tarrant might have been equally as intrigued—had he known that Dreisser had sent another messenger out to KD and that, around sundown or maybe a little later, some of Dreisser’s most dangerous hell-raisers wo
uld arrive in Cadiz City, ready and willing to follow any order voiced by their leader, and with scant regard for the possible consequences.
At three o’clock that afternoon Jim ran the deputy to ground. Tarrant, looking moody and preoccupied, occupied a corner table in a small downtown cantina. Until Jim sauntered in, the lawman was the only American present. The other drinkers—all five of them—were Mexicans who swigged tequila and conversed in undertones. This, Jim decided, was as good a place as any for a private conference with Tarrant. The nearest drinkers were well and truly out of earshot. At the bar, he purchased a tall beer, also a refill of what Tarrant was drinking—rum slightly watered. When he toted these drinks to the corner table, the deputy nodded his thanks and said, “Make yourself comfortable and get it off your chest.”
“You already guessed I’m here for a parlay?” challenged Jim.
“You have the look,” said Tarrant, “of a hombre with plenty on his mind.” As Jim seated himself, he told him, “I haven’t forgotten about the man you’re looking for. So far, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of a jasper resembling Jenner— but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here.” He finished his drink, reached for the refill and took a short pull at it. “All right, Rand, what’s on your mind?”
“Coincidences,” said Jim, bluntly.
“The world’s full of ’em,” drawled Tarrant. “You stumble over ’em every day of your life. Any special coincidences fretting you?”
“Let’s start with Karl Dreisser,” Jim suggested. “You said you don’t trust him. Well, make room for me, amigo, because I don’t trust him either.”
“And?” prodded Tarrant.
“And he’s made a bid for Jessie Kingston’s diary,” said Jim. “Six thousand dollars.”
Tarrant finished his drink, produced his makings, and said, very softly, “Well, well, well.”
He placed his Durham-sack, papers and vestas in the center of the table, an indication that Jim should help himself. As they rolled smokes, they eyed each other intently.
“Dreisser happened to be Purdew’s boss,” Jim continued, “and that’s another coincidence that doesn’t rest easy in my mind.”
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