Quinn's Last Run

by Paul Lederer

A bulky man with a florid face and thinning red hair appeared on the porch in front of the depot, frowned in their direction and then stalked to the halted coach.

  ‘Where in hell is Dawson, and who in the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Tank’s dead. We had Apache trouble.’

  ‘That figures,’ the big man answered, as if all the world’s troubles were bound to come his way.

  ‘As for who we are, we’ll discuss matters with you after we climb down. Is there someone around to tend to the team?’

  ‘I’ll rouse the hostler – he’s sleeping. He’ll be plenty mad. Coach is five hours late.’

  ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ Quinn said. He looped the reins around the brake handle and stepped down, followed by Mike Hancock.

  The door to the stagecoach had swung open and now George Sabato stood stretching his back, looking around at the desolate little town.

  ‘We’ve got an injured woman inside,’ Quinn told the big man, who seemed to be the station manager. ‘Have you a bed we can take her to?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ His face now reflected more concern than anger. ‘Need any help with her?’

  ‘No, sir. Thank you but we can manage.’

  ‘All right, better come along inside.’

  Jody Short had now emerged from the stage, clearly manacled.

  ‘Who is that?’ the station manager asked unhappily,

  ‘My prisoner,’ Hancock said, tapping his badge which had not been visible before.

  ‘I see. It’s going to be one of those nights, is it? Let me get the door open and I’ll call my wife to see to the woman’s needs.’

  ‘Mike,’ Quinn said in a low voice, ‘do you think that you and Sabato there can handle carrying the girl inside?’

  ‘Why, aren’t you …? Oh, I see,’ Mike said understanding. One of them would have to see to the gold, and Hancock needed to keep watch over his prisoner at the same time. ‘All right.’ To Jody Short he said, ‘We’re going inside now, Short. You’re going to sit down in the first chair you see, and you’re going to stay there.’

  Quinn stood watching in the night as Jody Short was herded into the low adobe structure and Mike and George Sabato returned to help the injured young woman from the coach. She was able to stand on her own feet now in a wobbly fashion. That alone was encouraging. The station manager must have gone to rouse the hostler from his sleep, for from some unseen building behind the station a string of oaths stained the quiet solitude of the night. Quinn smiled and went to the boot of the coach.

  Untying the fastenings on the leather covered boot, he searched for and found the heavy canvas sack with the leather grips. He was dragging the gold from there when he heard a pistol cock behind him and a near-at-hand voice hiss.

  ‘Get your hands off of that, Quinn.’

  The voice was recognizable as George Sabato’s. Quinn turned slowly to see Sabato, hatless, standing there with a Remington .36 revolver pointed at him.

  ‘I never took you for a thief, Quinn,’ the fat man said.

  ‘I’m not. I’m just removing these goods before the coach is led away to the stable. What makes it your business anyway, Sabato?’

  ‘What?’ the round-faced man said, taking another step closer. ‘I am an employee of the Territorial Penitentiary at Yuma. A guard there for twenty-three years. That … those goods were placed under my protection.’

  ‘Fine,’ Quinn said, turning away. ‘Protect them.’

  With that he dropped the canvas bag and strode away toward the open door to the lighted stage office. He cared nothing about Sabato and his problems, nothing about the gold. It would have helped if the fat man had identified himself earlier as a prison official, but it did not matter. He was through with the gold, through with the stagecoach, through with.…

  The young woman with the developing bruise on her forehead was sitting up in an overstuffed chair near the low-burning fireplace, sipping coffee or tea from a tiny cup. Her gaze flickered briefly toward Quinn’s eyes and fell away again.

  Quinn stood silently staring at the crimson and gold of the fire burning in the stone hearth until, minutes later, they were called to dinner at the long plank table in an inner room. The stage station master – introduced as Aaron Pyle – sat at the head of the table. His wife served platters of meat and potatoes. She was a tiny creature with Spanish eyes that seemed constantly fearful. Quinn noticed this as he noticed other events going on around him: Jody Short struggling to eat with manacled hands, Mike Hancock’s apparent weariness, the concerned expression on the face of the lady passenger, the hasty eating by George Sabato, who accompanied his meal with grunts of appreciation.

  He watched all of this, but none of it had any real relevance. He finished half of his meal, rose and left the room with only a nod of thanks to Pyle’s Mexican wife. He wanted nothing to do with these people. Mike Hancock, of course, he knew from his backtrail, but he and Mike had never been close friends in any sense. When Hancock had been pursuing Ernesto Guerrero up along the Yavapai, Quinn had reluctantly pinned on a deputy marshal’s badge. Guerrero had been taking stock – horses and cattle – from the ranchers around Quinn’s spread and driving them to Mexico.

  They never caught up with Guerrero, although they had taken a small toll on his gang.

  Nearly a year later Guerrero had been arrested in Riodoso, ending his career as a border raider. Quinn had worked with Mike Hancock, but had never gotten close to the marshal.

  As for considering the girl – she seemed to be all right now, was eating healthily. And he had taken offense at George Sabato’s manner when Quinn had been trying only to help. He had no interest in Sabato’s problems either. He wanted only to get home once again.

  All Quinn wanted to do now was catch a night’s sleep, purchase a horse in the morning and strike out for his ranch. He appreciated the problems of the others, but it was hardly his obligation to aid them. He had brought the stage through to Las Palmas – not that any of them had thanked him for it – but that had been as much for himself as for them. Now let them fend for themselves.

  Quinn stepped out on to the porch in front of the low adobe building and stood studying the silent town, the starry skies. He first caught a breath of some flowery scent and then heard the rustle of skirts as the young woman from the stagecoach slipped up beside him to lean her hands on the railing and look skyward herself.

  ‘I am Lily Davenport,’ she said without looking directly at Quinn.

  ‘Glad to know you,’ Quinn answered carefully.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for what you did back there.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ she asked, suddenly focusing her shining eyes on his.

  ‘Do? I’m going home, Lily Davenport.’

  ‘To …?’

  ‘A little place I’ve built up in the Yavapai Valley. There are people, obligations waiting for me.’

  ‘But can’t you …? I heard the men talking,’ she continued, still hesitantly. What was she driving at?

  ‘What about?’ he asked carefully. She had stepped nearer to him, and yes she was young and beautiful, her body slender, compactly arranged.

  ‘There’s no driver!’ she said with a sudden burst of emotion. Her hand reached for his shirt sleeve and then fell away. ‘This man, Tank Dawson, was supposed to rest here for the night and then drive the stage the rest of the way into Yuma.’

  ‘They’ll find somebody to take you,’ Quinn answered.

  ‘But … what if there is no one? I must be in Yuma tomorrow.’ Now she did touch his arm lightly. Quinn smiled at her and then shook his head. ‘Looks like you will be late in that case. They’ll have to send for another driver.’

  ‘But you –’

  Quinn interrupted her. ‘But I am not a stagecoach driver, never wanted to be, only wish to get home and take care of my own business.’

  She looked up at him, tried a smile, let it fall away and said sharply, ‘I did not think that you were a crue
l man!’

  That said, she hoisted her skirts and stalked back into the stage stop, leaving Quinn to watch her rigid back.

  ‘What did you do to offend the lady?’ Mike Hancock asked as he stepped out to join Quinn at the rail.

  ‘Nothing,’ Quinn said, returning Mike’s smile. ‘She wanted something done her way and I told her it wasn’t my way.’

  ‘One of those, huh?’ Mike mused. ‘I came out to tell you that the lady of the house is saving some dessert for you – blackberry cobbler and coffee.’

  ‘Have you any idea,’ Quinn asked, ignoring the invitation, ‘where a man can find a decent horse and tack in this town?’

  ‘I’ve never been through here but once,’ Hancock answered, ‘and that was years ago. Ask Pyle. The station master must know. Maybe he’s even got a spare saddle horse himself. Now, why don’t you come in and try that cobbler? I noticed you didn’t eat but half of your supper.’

  ‘I don’t think I want any, Mike.’

  ‘Why? No sweet tooth?’

  Quinn was bluntly honest. ‘I don’t want to look at George Sabato across the table. I’m not crazy about Lily Davenport. Jody Short – I felt like I had to keep my eyes on him all through supper, waiting for him to make a move. I just don’t think dessert would be good for my digestion.’

  ‘Do as you like.’ Mike shrugged, stepping away from the rail. ‘It’s your stomach. Me, I’ve been on trail rations for three days. I’m going to eat first and worry about my digestion later.’

  Thinking about what he was missing made Quinn’s stomach grumble just a little, but as he had told Mike, he did not care to eat with those people. He decided to take a short walk uptown. Perhaps he would be able to find a stable where a horse could be purchased.

  There was an unhappy feeling surrounding this group. Some sort of unidentifiable dark aura. He had no sympathy for any of them. Jody Short, an accused woman killer, Sabato with his quick gun and accusing eyes guarding the gold, Lily Davenport with her twitch of indignation after not getting her way. He walked the sandy streets, searching for more companionable people.

  There was a cantina open. A narrow, squat adobe, its face splashed with the red white and green of Mexico’s national colors, but, glancing in, Quinn saw no other pale faces and he decided not to enter. No matter what people said, believed (or pretended to), outsiders are not always welcome.

  No matter, he was not thirsty for alcohol and so he walked on, glancing now and then at the ragged, wind-torn clouds overhead. The stars were bright in the gaps of the clouds, dancing in a night sky that was nearly black. The storm had broken. Morning would dawn clear and the way to his ranch along the Yavapai would be over dry ground.

  And he was ready to start for home. There would be time for taking care of his stomach once the ranch was reached.

  The voice from the alley said ‘Hey!’ as Quinn passed, and he halted, looking curiously into its shadowed depths.

  ‘Me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  Puzzled, Quinn stood uncertainly at the head of the alley. He frowned, not responding. It was not a clever idea to step into a dark, narrow alley where a stranger beckoned.

  It was then that they jumped him from behind.

  There were two of them, Quinn thought, perhaps more, but they were at least three as the man who had called to him rushed to join in the assault, The sheer weight of their bodies drove Quinn to the earth. He swung out wildly, but had no real chance of driving them off. The fists and boots of his attackers slammed into his legs, his ribs. The men unleashed each blow with grunts of effort, giving him their best shots.

  Quinn could not rise. Two of them were now sitting on him. A heavy blow to his jaw sent his head reeling, the stars created by the blow were brighter than the desert stars, more colorful. He just gave up the fight. With legs and arms pinned down, with hundreds of pounds of sweating male flesh on top of him there was no chance at all to fight free.

  He felt one man rise and then another. A last kick was delivered to his back, just above his kidney. A voice from the darkness growled.

  ‘We know who you are, driver. You’re not going to take that stagecoach out of Las Palmas in the morning. Do you understand!’

  ‘I understand,’ Quinn said, breathing heavily. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘If you do … this is just a hint of what could happen to you, driver,’ one of them said. He was only a featureless, shadowed figure hovering over Tom Quinn. ‘Remember that you were warned.’

  Then they trudged away, leaving Tom Quinn alone and hurting in the cold, dirty alley.

  It was a long time before Quinn was able to rise. The alley was dark and empty. There were no sounds to be heard across all of Las Palmas. Struggling to his feet he staggered a little and was forced to lean against the wall of a building for support. His back hurt, his ribs hurt, his head ached and throbbed.

  All over nothing. He did not know the men who had attacked him, had done nothing to them, had had no intention of driving the stagecoach on in the morning.

  Not until then. Now he stooped, retrieved his revolver and with a perverse sort of consideration thought things over. The why of matters he could not even guess at. He just did not like people trying to beat him into a certain way of thinking. Perhaps he should show the men that they had achieved the exact opposite of their objective. It would prove nothing to anyone except himself, but he considered. Maybe he would continue on to Yuma.

  He did not feel that he owed it to the stage line, to George Sabato, certainly not to the stormy little Lily Davenport. Nor even to the fallen Tank Dawson who would never complete his last run.

  It was something he would have to think through over the course of the long night. Just now he planted his hat back on his head and, holding his ribs, he staggered his way along the empty street toward the stage station beneath the cold and lonely skies.

  THREE

  Marshal Mike Hancock sat across the low-ceilinged room from the fireplace where the logs burned, giving off warmth but little smoke. He had a serape folded as a lap robe over his arthritic knees. Pyle had provided Hancock with two shots of whiskey followed now by a mug of dark, bitter coffee. Mike found himself envying Aaron Pyle who spent all of his evenings like this, with an attentive little wife catering to him. And, not for the first time, he wondered why he had chosen his own way of life. He was too old to be chasing outlaws and thieves across the badlands. There were mornings when just swinging into the saddle was a labor. The long rides across the sand dune country, over the waterless broken ground, had once seemed much easier. Now they were torture. If he thought he could afford to, perhaps find a situation like Aaron Pyle’s, he would turn in his badge. It was a thought – perhaps Jody Short would be his last prisoner.

  Short sat across the room, nearer to the native stone fireplace, shackled hands between his knees. He had managed to strike up a conversation, which Hancock could not hear, with Lily Davenport. The young woman was leaning forward in her chair, listening intently to whatever it was Jody was saying. The firelight made her eyes sparkle just as the starlight had earlier. She seemed recovered now. There was a bruise on her forehead, but with her hair now brushed, her face scrubbed, she was a remarkably striking woman. Hancock continued to watch them through half-lowered eyelids. His rifle still rested on his lap.

  Because, you just never knew.

  ‘So,’ Jody Short was saying, ‘they just placed the blame on me because I was in the area and they were too lazy to track down the real killer. I had never even met this Dolores Delgado, but they felt like they had to find someone guilty, and they chose me because I was unimportant, a man with no influence, of no standing. I was, simply, railroaded to clear their desks of the inquiry.’

  ‘It must have been terrible for you,’ Lily said with sympathy. She briefly touched the young man’s knee, then drew her hand away.

  ‘It’ll be worse for me in Yuma when they stretch my neck,’ Jody said, and his eyes seemed to moisten. ‘For something I nev
er did!’ He raised his voice intentionally, so that Mike Hancock looked that way. Then Jody leaned back in his chair. ‘There’s no way out for me now.’

  ‘Maybe someone will come forward,’ Lily suggested. ‘After a while.’

  ‘They don’t wait long in Yuma to hang you,’ Jody responded bitterly. ‘Besides, I doubt there were any witnesses. It’s a long, empty land. The girl should have known better than to go out riding on her own.’

  The eyes of all shifted as the front door opened and Tom Quinn entered. He moved heavily and was slightly bent over, holding his side.

  Mike Hancock rose from his chair with concern. ‘What happened, Quinn!’

  ‘A little scuffle. Where’s Pyle? I need a bed.’

  Within minutes Quinn had been ushered into a tiny room with a cot and a high, narrow window. He managed to get his boots off, but only just, before he gave it up and lay down on his back to stare at the ceiling and watch the half-dozen visible stars through the window. He felt rotten. He was growing angrier, but hadn’t the energy to sustain the anger while his body ached as it did.

  Sleep was long in coming and when it did come it was fitful, incomplete. Tom Quinn had a lot of time to consider events.

  When the first faint reddish hue filled the narrow window of his chamber Tom rose to sit on the side of the bunk. He was stiff, still weary and uncertain. The light of morning had not awakened him, and there had been no knock on the door. But from somewhere beyond the room he could smell eggs being cooked, tortillas warming, rich salsa and above all the scent of coffee. He struggled to put his boots on, pondering matters as he did so.

  His night thoughts had done nothing to clarify matters. He reviewed what he knew and what he did not know. Someone did not want the coach to get through to Yuma. Who, why, was an enigma. Lily Davenport, that sleek haughty woman absolutely wanted the coach to roll on. She had told him that her journey was an urgent one. Why that might be, she had not indicated. George Sabato certainly wanted the stage to reach Yuma so that he could deliver the gold to the prison authorities. Jody Short, of course, did not. No man rushed toward his own hanging.