“I’m willing to confess everything,” Rodney hastened to assure him.
“Do your talking with that pen—you lousy little traitor,” scowled the deputy.
The confession covered two pages. After Rodney had signed it, Jim and Tarrant added their signatures as witnesses and carefully scanned all that Rodney had written—the short, terse, damning sentences. It was all here, everything they needed.
“Quite a hunch-player you are, Rand,” drawled Tarrant. “Dreisser and Rodney did parlay at the old Joyhouse, and always took it for granted that Jessie Kingston would keep their secrets. When they heard about her diary—I’ll bet they each lost five pounds of fat in sweat.” He snapped his fingers. “Get dressed, Rodney.”
They were escorting Rodney along the side street in dawn’s first light, when Tarrant called a halt in front of a nondescript, single-storied residence.
“Hold onto this galoot,” he requested Jim. “Here’s where I collect another certain party. The bravest and smartest lawman this county ever had—if he’s any judge, and the apple of the Reform Committee’s eye. Stay put, Rand. This won’t take but a minute.”
Whistling cheerfully and with the folded confession snug in an inside pocket of his coat, the deputy hustled up the path to the front door and pounded on it. Jim, with his left hand clamped to Rodney’s coat-collar, watched with an unsympathetic smile creasing his sun-tanned visage, Rodney stood with his head bowed, his distraught gaze fixed on his manacled hands. Jim saw the front door opened by the sheriff. At this distance he couldn’t overhear the brief conversation, but Murch’s shattered expression was almost comical. In a matter of minutes, Tarrant was coming back down the walk tagged by his flushed and excited chief. Murch’s hat was askew on his balding dome. He was tucking his nightshirt into his pants, getting entangled in his suspenders and perspiring freely.
“Can’t believe it ...” he kept mumbling, as they walked on to the intersection. “Just—can’t believe ...”
“We got it all on paper, Sheriff,” drawled Tarrant. “You can read it twenty times—and backwards if you want—when we get to the office.”
~*~
Sometimes, Karl Dreisser was apt to wake-early—especially if he had problems on his mind. Half-dressed, he was standing by an open window of his suite at the Imperial, when Rodney and his three-man escort crossed Main Street diagonally, bound for the law office. His scalp crawled and an oath escaped him. Rodney was wearing handcuffs!
“It’s all over,” he grimly assured himself, and he struggled to fight back his growing panic. “Rodney couldn’t endure an interrogation. He’ll talk—if he hasn’t already talked. How did they get wise to him? There’s only one way. That infernal diary—they broke the seal ...!”
In urgent haste he finished dressing, buckled on his gun-belt. He needed time now—time to get to the livery stable where his horse awaited, time to get that fleet-footed animal saddled, time to ride out to KD and empty his safe—and then begin the hard run east to Texas. At this hour of morning, he would be conspicuous when he hurried uptown to the stable! The men in the law office would be bound to spot him. What he needed was a diversion under cover of which he could make good his escape. Well, fortunately, there were more than enough men at his beck and call to create that diversion.
He strode along the corridor, pounding on doors. Rawson came trudging out, half-dressed, bleary eyed and truculent. Two ethers emerged from the room opposite.
“I think Murch and his deputy are trying to run a bluff on Leon Rodney,” he told them. Lying came easily to him, especially in time of emergency. “They’ve just arrested Rodney and taken him to the jailhouse.”
’Well, damnitall ...” breathed Rawson. “I don’t like the smell of that. It could mean big trouble.”
“Murch is the kind who scares easily,” drawled Dreisser. “I want you three to go collect Dallas and Brock from outside the Territorial Hotel—then hustle along to the law office and demand that Murch should turn Rodney loose. If Murch seems reluctant, you throw a real scare into him. A few shots is all it should take ...”
“But Murch might make a fight of it,” argued Rawson, “’specially if Tarrant’s with him.”
“If that happens, you stake out and keep ’em busy,” ordered Dreisser. “I’ll ride to KD and muster the whole outfit—so you’ll have plenty of reinforcements. We’ll tear that calaboose apart if needs be. Rodney is too damned important to us.”
“That’s for sure,” breathed Rawson. “That yellow-livered cashier could put a rope round our necks.” He nodded to the other men. “All right, get your clothes and your hardware, and we’ll fetch Dallas and Brock.”
A few moments later, when the gunmen advanced along Main toward the law office, Jim was at one of the front windows, staring out. Rodney had been installed in a cell. Tarrant had got the Justin stove working and was about to brew coffee. Murch was seated at his desk, worriedly reading Rodney’s confession—for the third time.
“Passel of hardcases headed this way,” Jim briskly reported. “Tarrant—come take a look.”
Tarrant came to the window, threw a quick glance downtown.
“KD guns,” he grunted. “I reckon this is it. They’ll try to bust Rodney out. It likely never occurred to ’em that he’s already confessed.”
“Is there a back way out of here?” demanded Jim.
“No,” said Tarrant. “But there’s a side window.”
“Bueno,” frowned Jim. “After I sneak out, you and Murch barricade the door and every window. If I can make it to the back alley, I stand a better than even chance of getting around behind ’em.”
“Dreisser’ll bring in more men,” Tarrant grimly predicted.
“I still can’t believe ...!” began the thoroughly alarmed sheriff.
“It’s too damn late for talk,” growled Jim, as he hurried to the side window.
Seconds after he dropped into the side alley, he heard the window closed and shuttered. He paused a moment, cocking an ear to the relentless sound of approaching footsteps. And then, quickly and silently, he hustled to the rear end of the alley and into a lane way running parallel with the main stem. This he followed for a block downtown to where it crossed another side alley. When he entered it, he emptied his holster.
The first shouted challenge was echoing along the street, followed by the sullen roaring of six-shooters and the ominous, tinkling sound of breaking glass, just as he emerged from the alley mouth. He could see four of the gunmen. They hadn’t yet begun a dash for cover; maybe they were over-confident. One of them yelled to the lawmen.
“Send Rodney out! He’s a friend of ours, and we don’t take kindly to ...!”
And now Tarrant’s voice, harsh, compelling.
“Rodney stays where he is! You’ve already fired at us. Don’t try it again—I’m warning you!”
But that warning was drowned by another outburst of gunfire, as two of the hardcases triggered at the law office windows. Grim-faced and tight-lipped, Big Jim stepped away from the alleymouth and walked five yards to a drinking trough. When he called to the attackers, he used all the strength of his lungs—his best parade ground bellow.
“Drop your guns! Raise your hands and walk slowly to the law office porch!”
The four darted quick glances over their shoulders. One did the violent, instinctive thing. His Colt roared and Jim had no option but to return fire. As the man reeled and flopped into the dust, Jim was vaguely conscious of urgent movement further uptown; a man was sidling around a corner and darting into a barn. At this distance, Jim couldn’t be sure as to who he was and, in any case, these trigger-happy gunhawks were demanding all his attention.
From the front window of the law office, a shotgun roared. One of the attackers was killed instantly, his body driven all the way to the opposite boardwalk by the impact of the buckshot. The other two promptly began a dash for cover, ignoring Jim’s demand.
One of the running men, while still a full twelve feet from the entrance t
o an alley on the other side of the street, swung his right arm toward Jim and got off two shots fast. The other made the fatal error of rising from behind a crate on the porch of a hardware store to pour more fire at the law office windows. Tarrant was using a rifle now, and the well-aimed slug struck the hardcase full in the face. Again, Jim’s gun roared. The man dashing for the alley entrance sprawled on face and hands, losing his grip on his six-gun, cursing obscenely. As he groped for the fallen weapon, Jim yelled to him.
“Leave it be! Try to pick it up—and I shoot to kill!’'
“Behind you, Rand!” roared Tarrant.
Jim crouched, re-cocked his .45 and whirled. Rawson, the scrawny left-hander, was only a short distance behind him, his six-gun leveled. In firing, Jim threw himself sideways. Both weapons boomed in unison, but only one bullet scored. With his shirtfront bloody and his face contorted, Rawson collapsed in an untidy heap.
A clatter of hooves again drew Jim’s gaze to the uptown area. That furtive figure had reappeared, straddling a racy-looking pony—and now Jim recognized Dreisser.
“Hold it right there!” he boomed.
“That’s as far as you go, Dreisser!” yelled Tarrant. “You’re under arrest!”
For any but an expert pistolero, the distance was too great for accuracy. As Dreisser hustled his mount out into the street, he emptied his holster and cut loose. One bullet kicked up dust a full six feet from where Jim stood. Another whined high over his head. The champion marksman of the 11th Cavalry then dropped to one knee and held his left forearm rigid at a level with his chin, using it as a prop for the long barrel of his cocked .45. He took careful aim, ignoring the fact that Dreisser was still firing at him, and then his Colt roared and, for the money-hungry boss of the KD gang, that was the end. Dreisser keeled over, pitching to the ground headfirst.
~*~
Two hours later, they were crowded into the bedroom assigned to Sarina in the home of Doc Ashton. The medico was seated beside the bed. Benito was perched on the window-ledge. Tarrant lounged in the open doorway and Jim and Bill Swann occupied the only other chairs. The deputy had stopped by a few minutes ago, interrupting their discussion to report, “Our gallant sheriff has headed out to KD to round up Dreisser’s other hired guns, and I don’t reckon he’ll have any trouble.”
“You don’t think Dreisser’s men will put up a fight?” asked Jim.
“Let’s not forget you wounded a couple the other day,” said Tarrant. “Anyway, when they see Murch’s posse, I’m betting they’ll quit cold.”
“The sheriff took a fair-sized posse along?” frowned Bill.
“I stopped counting ...” Tarrant grinned mirthlessly, “… when I got to three dozen.”
“Caramba!” breathed Benito.
“Ain’t that typical of Ray Murch?” mused Bill. “You and Big Jim already handled the dirty end of this chore—and now he’ll try to grab all the glory.”
“I don’t really mind, Bill,” declared Tarrant. “I don’t really mind at all. The important thing, as far as I’m concerned, was to show Dreisser up for what he was.” He glanced at the bulky tome resting on Sarina’s lap. She was sitting up, propped up by pillows. Her face was far from serene. “Ma’am—you cling to that diary like it’s all you have left in the whole world.”
“I’ve told her she ought to douse it with coal-oil and throw a match on it,” growled Jim.
“But …” Benito fidgeted, grinned uncomfortably, “… if it is worth mucho dinero ...”
“Ma’am, I think I could give you a lot of arguments,” said Tarrant, “as to why you ought to surrender that book to the law. Cadiz County has had its share of unsolved crime. If your mother wrote down everything she overheard ...”
“I don’t know.” Sarina shook her head perplexedly. “It’s so difficult to decide.”
“Well, I’ve never been one to deliver ultimatums,” said Ashton, “but maybe I can hasten your decision.”
“You mean—force me into making a choice?” challenged Sarina.
“If you have no regard for me, Sarina,” said Ashton, “it’ll make no difference.” He took one of her hands in his. “A doctor has little concern for his own feelings—I don’t mind saying all this in front of witnesses.”
“We’ll leave—if you want ...” began Jim.
“No—stay,” insisted Ashton. And then, eyeing Sarina steadily, he delivered his ultimatum. “I believe we have a great deal in common, and I’d be honored to court a woman who has overcome her mercenary instincts. A mercenary woman would do her utmost to capitalize on that diary, Sarina. My kind of woman would break the seal and render it to the law—or do as Jim Rand has suggested—burn it.”
“I can’t let her burn it, Doc,” muttered Tarrant.
All eyes were on Sarina now. She hesitated for a long moment, and then, “I guess all of you are right,” she murmured. “It shouldn’t be burned before Deputy Tarrant has had a chance to check all the information recorded by my mother—and I shouldn’t try to get rich—through the guilty consciences of mother’s old customers.” She smiled resignedly at Jim. “If you’d lend me a knife.”
“My pleasure,” Jim assured her. He felt in his vest pockets, then scowled at Benito and snapped his fingers. Benito displayed his buckteeth in a weak apology of a grin, produced the jack knife from a pocket of his pantalones and tossed it to the big man, who prised out the blade and offered it to Sarina. “I’d offer to do it for you,” he told her, “but I reckon it’s your chore.”
The hardened wax crackled away and littered the bedcovers, as Sarina prodded at it with the knife-blade—the seal was broken. She cut through the string, took a deep breath and then opened the book. Jim saw her frown. She turned over the first page, then another, then another, and then riffled through the entire book and heaved a sigh of relief.
"‘I’m—so grateful,” she breathed. “So very—very—grateful ...”
She passed the book to Jim. As he examined it, Tarrant, Bill Swann and the little Mex all fired questions at him. A wry grin creased his countenance, and he held up the book for their inspection.
“Empty,” he announced. “She wrote nothing in it. Every single page is blank. See for yourself.”
He tossed it to Tarrant. Bill Swann slumped lower in his chair, chuckled softly and said, “Well—I’ll be a sonofagun—and bless old Jessie’s heart.”
“You didn’t know about this?” challenged Tarrant.
“No,” said Bill. “Of course it was me first started the rumor—about how Jessie’s diary was full of dynamite, all the secrets she’d overheard in the past twelve years. I was followin’ her orders. She wanted me to pass the word around, so that, by the time Sarina arrived, there’d be plenty of men itchin’ to make her an offer. What they’d really be payin’ for was the privilege of burnin’ it—not readin’ it—just burnin’ it.”
“And, as far as you knew,” prodded Tarrant, “she’d written a lot in the diary ...?”
“About every one of her customers,” nodded Bill, “that had somethin’ to hide.” He shook his head and grinned broadly. “Well, by golly, she sure fooled us.”
There was a brief silence; they were all busy with their thoughts. When Sarina next spoke, she sounded happier, and Jim suspected this might be the first time in a long time that she had felt so lighthearted.
“Deputy Tarrant—would you oblige me by having the editor of the Clarion call on me? Mr. Hagen ...?”
“Haggerty,” said Tarrant. “Elroy Haggerty. Sure, Mrs. Hale, I’ll have him stop by.”
“I’d like to offer him the whole story,” she explained. ‘I think it’s important that the people of Cadiz County be told the truth about the diary as quickly as possible.”
Tarrant tucked the diary under his arm, re-donned his Stetson and asked, “Anybody want to come and watch me burn this thing?”
“I’ll come with you,” decided Jim, as he got to his feet. “It seems Sarina has no further use for a bodyguard.”
“I’m
terribly grateful ...” she began.
“Forget it,” he shrugged. And, nodding amiably to the physician, he opined, “You’ll have the best kind of bodyguard pretty soon, unless I miss my guess.”
A short time later, having shoved the diary into the potbellied stove in Editor Haggerty’s office, Jim, Tarrant, and the little Mex watched it burn. A highly amused Haggerty was donning hat and coat, making ready to leave for his interview with the widow, when Jim thought to produce his sketch of the homicidal Jenner and offer it for the newspaperman’s perusal. Haggerty had never seen the man before but, quite by chance, a towner came trudging in to arrange for a birth notice at that moment, and happened to glance at the sketch.
“That feller Becker,” he remarked, “sure is a mean-lookin’ galoot, huh gents? Well now, Elroy, I’m here to tell you Doc Beachley tended my woman just a little while ago, and now me and Ellie got us a son ...”
“You recognize this man?” Jim demanded.
“Becker, he called himself,” offered the towner. “I was in the Joyhouse the night Jessie Kingston threw him out. He was a real sore loser, you know? Whined every time he lost a dollar, and ...”
“Did he quit town?” prodded Jim.
“You happen to notice which way he traveled, Herbie?” asked the deputy.
“Why, sure,” said the towner. “North.”
“When was this?” frowned Tarrant.
“That’s easy for me to remember,” the towner assured them, “on account of it was the same night poor old Jessie died.”
“Not too long ago,” Tarrant thoughtfully suggested to Jim. “The trail would still be fairly warm.”
‘‘Deputy,” said Jim, “I wouldn’t care if the trail was ice-cold. I’ll still follow. I’ll always be headed in the same direction as Jenner.” He turned and hustled toward the office entrance, saying, “Hasta la vista.”
The little Mex shrugged resignedly and, as the big man disappeared through the doorway, told the three locals: “Where he goes—I go. This is how it will always be, I think.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “Adios, amigos.”
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