by T. T. Flynn
“She thought he was an XO man. She’d ridden over to protest against another cut fence . . . which you don’t seem to be able to stop, Hooker.”
“An’ you’re sure she met Fortune there at that time?”
Even Tom grew tense as the small, erect, bearded man asked icily: “Hooker, are you trying to insinuate my daughter didn’t tell the truth about it?”
A long breath passed as Bent Hooker’s surly look ran over Gaylord, then Hooker shrugged. “I don’t doubt any lady’s word. If she seen him there, she seen him there.”
“So he couldn’t have held up the stage,” insisted Gaylord.
“I reckon not,” admitted Hooker reluctantly, and he added lamely: “Fortune must’ve hung around the ranch after he seen Larsen at three o’clock.”
“That’s something for Larsen to study about,” said Gaylord coolly. “We’ll call this closed then, Sheriff. Fortune, I’ll be pleased to have your company down the street.”
Gaylord holstered his gun under his coat, walked to the door without looking back. No one tried to stop them.
Bent Hooker’s harsh voice was speaking before they passed outside. “Got to have a posse. Ain’t much trackin’ possible tonight, but we can get the driver’s body an’ look around. Like to have a dozen men, anyway.”
Gaylord turned to the left in the new night, and Tom said soberly: “Thanks. Keeping me out of that holdup meant more than any help I ever got.”
“My daughter told me she’d met you.” Gaylord touched his beard. For the first time, his teeth flashed in a slight smile. “She pitched into you, thinking you were an XO man.”
“I thought I was, when I met her.”
“Betty said you acted like a gentleman, and evidently didn’t know the XO had changed hands. I thought you’d come on into town here, so I rode in to have a talk. Hooker was quick to lay that holdup on you.”
“Damned quick,” agreed Tom. “But not so quick he didn’t take time to get his stories straight. Larsen didn’t have to think when he put me at the XO at three o’clock. He’d been told what to say.”
“Plain enough.” Gaylord nodded. “They only slipped up because they didn’t know you’d met Betty.”
“That isn’t all. Hooker said he’d just got word at the courthouse that the stage had been held up. Larsen was in the Fish Hook Bar then. Which means Larsen hightailed into town after me and told the Hookers I had been to the ranch. The Hookers told him to place me at the XO at three o’clock, and then Larsen set out to find me and have his fun before word got in that the stage had been held up and the driver killed.”
Gaylord said coolly: “It struck me that way, too. Bent Hooker had everything laid right to pin that holdup on you before the news reached him.”
“Which means,” said Tom, “the Hookers knew that holdup was due to happen. Bent Hooker had gotten word I was released. Most likely he guessed I’d be in here about today . . . or somebody passed the word ahead. So somebody who looked like me helped rob the stage . . . and my showing up at the XO made it perfect.”
“Perfect,” agreed Gaylord with his first excitement. “It fits in with things I’ve been thinking about the Hookers. They’re smart, Fortune. They’re cunning.” Gaylord was silent for a moment. “And ruthless,” he added. “Did you kill that bank president?”
“If I lied at the trial, I’d lie now. But I didn’t . . . for what it’s worth to you.”
“Who did?”
“I’d trade the right man’s time in hell for a chance to pin it on him. Bent Hooker rounded up enough facts to make it look bad for me.”
“Bent Hooker again . . .”
“Uhn-huh. At the pen, I wondered a lot. You get plenty of time to think.”
They were walking as they talked; they turned a corner at the end of the street. The courthouse was across from them, a few windows lighted at this late hour of the evening, a few horses at the hitch racks, a small crowd gathering around the courthouse steps.
“The bank squeezed Steve Murphy,” continued Gaylord. “I happened along just in time to buy him out at a fair price. Which didn’t set well with the bank. Mort Classner had evidently had his sights lined on Murphy’s place for some time. Since then I’ve been in trouble one way and another. My men get thrown in jail if they take one drink too many in town. Part of them have quit me because working for Angus Gaylord seems to get them into trouble. My fences are always down. I’m losing beef, but I can’t prove it. The drought last summer hit me hard. My spare cash is gone. I had to borrow from the bank myself, which leaves me fair bait now for Classner.”
“Classner was cashier of the bank when I left here,” said Tom thoughtfully. “He didn’t have two dimes to rub together in his pocket, as far as anyone knew. How come he’s riding so high and handsome at the bank now?”
“The Hooker brothers got enough stock to control the bank. When Mort Classner speaks, it’s the Hooker brothers talking,” said Gaylord. For the first time Gaylord showed emotion; he swore in a low, troubled voice. “A heap of folks don’t see it. But everywhere you turn these days, you run up against the Hookers. Troubles that happen to others don’t seem to do the Hookers anything but good. The handwriting’s on the wall as far as I’m concerned. It’s get swallowed by the Hookers if I stay, or get swallowed by them anyway and get out.”
“And you aim to . . . ?”
“Stay!” said Angus Gaylord forcibly. “That’s why I rode in to see you. You’ve had your taste of the Hookers. I thought maybe your trouble over that killing left you with some ideas about the Hookers . . . and finding your ranch gone, you’d be willing to line up with me against them. You’re one man I can trust in a finish fight with that outfit.”
“Gun trouble?”
“If necessary.”
“Sorry, mister, I’m not back here to mix in any trouble. I’d kind of like to . . . but there isn’t a chance of getting me.”
Angus Gaylord halted. Behind them at the courthouse hitch racks men were forking leather hastily. A strung-out bunch of riders roared past the corner, gathering the new men with them as they raced on out of town on the Boulder road.
“Bent Hooker’s posse, going out to Bent Hooker’s hold-up,” said Angus Gaylord drily. “I’m sorry I guessed wrong on you, Fortune. They say a cornered rat’ll fight . . . like you did against Larsen. I should have let him handle you his way. Good day, sir.”
Angus Gaylord turned stiffly back. Tom swore helplessly. What was the use of offering those seventeen years back at the pen? Men who hadn’t already rotted in the pen couldn’t have any idea of the hell seventeen more years could be. If it meant a yellow brand to stay free, it’d have to be yellow. Tom turned back to the Diamond Bar.
There, Curt Lomis knew about Leatherneck Jones and Three-Finger Jack Bird. “Leatherneck’s ridin’ for Sam Dodge. Three-Finger’s with Les Watson, over on the Bar AK. Like to have you bunk with us tonight, Tom.”
“Obliged, Curt . . . but I’ll stay at the hotel and do some thinking. You said these parts were set for to blow up?”
Curt Lomis looked over his shoulder; his face was serious as he spoke softly. “I hear talk over the bar . . . soft talk that don’t get out, because men ain’t sure yet who’ll be with ’em. The Hookers are ridin’ a powder keg that’ll blow up under them if they get caught. They’ve clubbed folks with Bent Hooker’s law an’ the bank’s law, an’ nobody’s been able to come back at ’em. But if a Hooker gets caught crooked, it’ll take more than Hooker law to settle it. It’ll be settled by a lot of bank-squeezed, rustled-out, lawed-out, hazed-around, deuce-sized cowmen who are realizing they’re fat meat an’ buzzard bait for the slick Hooker crowd.”
“Bent Hooker,” Tom said, “knows who robbed that stage tonight.”
“Can you prove it?” Curt Lomis begged, suddenly excited.
“No.”
“There you are.” Lomis shrugged. “Nobody kin prove anything about anything.”
“Maybe I’ll think of something.” Tom grinned. “Wi
sh me luck, Curt.”
“Luck,” said Curt Lomis without conviction as his visitor turned to leave.
“Tom.” That was Dan Walker, standing in the shadows to the left of the doorway, saying in his whiskey-blurred voice: “Meet me in that vacant lot beyond the saddle shop.”
“Uhn-huh,” Tom agreed without stopping.
Weeds cluttered the vacant lot, old tin cans crunched underfoot. Tom waited some moments at the back of the lot before Walker stepped furtively out of the alley.
“Tom, bad business to tell you this on the street, but I figgered you’d want to know. Some gunslick is fixin’ to kill Gaylord before he leaves town tonight.”
V
Tom snapped: “Who? One of the Hookers?”
“Honest to God, Tom . . .”
“You’re lying, Dan. You used to be a man. Now you’re coming clean on this. Who’s after Gaylord? When’s it due to happen?”
“I’ve gone to hell,” Dan Walker agreed huskily. “I feel it down inside . . . sick an’ mean all the time. Booze started it. After I lost the place an’ Rosie started treatin’ me like dirt, I didn’t much care. Seein’ you again brings it up, ugly an’ plain. Tonight I quit drinkin’ . . . for good.” Dan Walker sighed. “Quit Rosie, too . . . an’ I thought she’d be everything to me.”
Tom snapped: “We’ll talk over your booze and lady friends later. What about Gaylord?”
“Ain’t anything more I can tell you,” Walker insisted.
“How’d you find it out?”
“Rosie,” said Walker unwillingly. “She started pickin’ at me like she’s been doing lately. ‘Your partner’s gonna lose his nurse mighty quick tonight,’ she said. When I tried to find out what she meant, she laughed an’ offered to bet me a drink that Gaylord wouldn’t make it outta town. Tom, I know when she’s sure about something. She’s heard someone talking.”
“Got a gun?”
“I sold mine.”
Tom nodded. “Thanks for telling me, anyway.”
Tom left Dan Walker standing there in the weeds and plunged back toward the street. Men on the sidewalk stared as he hurried past. And back inside the bar, Curt Lomis stared, too.
“Got a gun an’ holster belt, Curt?”
“Trouble, Tom?”
“Fork over, Curt, if you’ve got one.”
Lomis ducked behind the bar and came up with a .45, holstered in a heavy cartridge-filled belt.
“Seen Angus Gaylord?” Tom demanded.
“No. What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to take a look-see.”
It had been two and a half years since the friendly weight of a gun belt had hung like this. Tom shuddered out through the swinging doors, notching the belt tight. His hand slapped down to the bone gun handle, and up and down again in a half draw. Slow! Far too slow for the hell-busting young fellow Tom Fortune had been. Too slow, probably, for any trouble tonight. But Tom’s grin was hard and bitter as he spun the gun cylinder, thumbed in a sixth cartridge.
A slow gun tonight meant a quick death for Tom Fortune if trouble broke. And a fast gun meant a slow death for Tom Fortune back there in the pen—seventeen years of it. Take your choice—and only one way out. The yellow way out once more, deep down inside this time, down inside where a man lived with his secret thoughts. You could duck trouble where only yourself was concerned. But you couldn’t let a man who had pulled his own gun to help you get killed. You couldn’t count the cost on a debt like that. All you could do was pay.
Walking fast to the next bar, Tom sucked in a breath and smiled. Now that he’d decided, relief rushed in with the hot lift of a long whiskey drink. This was like the good old days—this free, never-mind feeling, gun riding comfortably against a leg, and action ahead.
Angus Gaylord wasn’t in the next bar, or the next. Men who Tom asked hadn’t seen Gaylord. Tom cut across the street, listening for the first hammering reports of gunfire. But the night bore peace and quiet, although more people than usual were appearing as word of the holdup and murder spread. Not knowing Gaylord’s habits, Gaylord’s horse, or anything about this man made it more difficult to locate him.
Maybe Dan Walker was wrong, maybe Gaylord was out of town, riding home safely. Tom reached the hotel where old Sam Dodge, hat in hand, was standing in front, with a familiar, slim, proud little figure. She was fingering a pair of light riding gloves and laughing, but she sobered into stiff reserve as Tom came up.
“Good evening, Miss Gaylord. Howdy, Sam.”
Old Sam’s wrinkled face split in a grin. “Talk of a feller an’ you’ll find him squattin’ under the window. I was jes tellin’ Miss Betty what a no-account son-of-a-gun you really are. She said she met you this afternoon.”
A flush rushed into Betty Gaylord’s face. Sam’s chuckle didn’t help, and Tom’s grim smile didn’t draw an answering smile from the girl.
“Believe anything Sam tells you. He grew up from a weed in these parts and knows all the sign,” Tom said. “Where can I find Mister Gaylord?”
“Miss Betty was just askin’,” Sam Dodge volunteered. “She drove a buggy in to see some friends an’ side her daddy back. Gaylord went in Hanson’s Bar across the street there ’bout ten minutes ago.” Old Sam’s look was mischievous. “You two set in the chairs here an’ talk while I trot over an’ get him.”
“I’ll go over,” Tom said.
“I was jist startin’, Tom . . .”
Betty Gaylord interrupted stiffly: “Mister Fortune seems to prefer to go.”
Red was flooding her cheeks. Sam Dodge made it worse with his good-natured indignation: “Danged if I ever passed up a purty girl like this when I was a young snapper.”
Trust a temperamental girl like her to get everything wrong. No time to explain, either. Tom was turning away when two strange riders came along fast and reined in across the street. Both were big men, both double-gunned, both riding fine horses and saddles that held booted rifles.
“Who’s that over there?” Tom snapped to Sam Dodge.
“Ben Tag gettin’ off the claybank. Don’t know who the other feller is. I’ve seen him around. Ben Tag comes an’ goes, gambles, works a leetle, always has plenty of money. But don’t get in no card games with . . .”
“I tangled with him in the pen soon after I got there,” said Tom. “His time was up last year. Never did hear where he went. He’s a killer. I’ll go get Gaylord.”
Ben Tag and the other man had wrapped reins around the rack pole and were striding purposefully into the saloon. Even if Angus Gaylord hadn’t been inside, one would have wondered what was on Ben Tag’s mind. Tom hurried, flexing his gun fingers and arm, tense, suddenly fearful he hadn’t moved fast enough to reach Gaylord in time.
The Wells Fargo office and stage station were next door, the hotel was across the street, and Hanson’s place was filling fast as word of the stage robbery spread. Brass oil lamps hung from the ceiling; smaller silver-plated lamps in brackets around the walls drenched the long barroom in light. The crowd at the bar made a babble of noise. Tobacco smoke drifted around the lights. Two bartenders were working hard as Tom stepped through the swinging doors and looked about.
Ben Tag and his companion had stopped also to scan the rooms and now were striding to the back, where four men were drinking and talking. Angus Gaylord was one of the four. His back was to the strangers. Tom saw Ben Tag’s right hand slide to the gun handle and come away. It was sign enough the man was readying for trouble.
Ben Tag crowded into Gaylord at the bar and elbowed him over. Gaylord, as he protested, didn’t know the second man had stopped two paces out from the bar and was watching with poised intensity.
“Mister, pushing won’t get you any more room than asking.” Gaylord’s curt voice carried.
“Who you callin’ names?” blared Ben Tag angrily. “Watch that gun of your’n, too! I . . .”
He was starting the draw when Tom called: “Looking for trouble, Ben Tag?”
Surprise unleashed Tag’s taut n
erves and muscles. Tag whirled, snatching out both guns, firing as he turned. The first ear-shattering report erupted from his left gun as it flipped out beside Gaylord. Gaylord collapsed—and Tom’s first bullet caught Ben Tag’s leaping figure above the waist and knocked the big man staggering.
Men were diving to the floor, plunging out of the way. The second man’s gun came up roaring. A shot missed. Tom’s bullet caught him in the shoulder before a second shot; he spun away, dropping his gun, and kept going out the back in a stumbling run.
Ben Tag, holed through but keeping his feet with a superhuman effort, had reeled upright beside an overturned chair and thumbed both guns in a savage effort at retaliation. Words were only faint sounds in that wild, blasting melee, but Ben Tag’s heavy lips were mouthing rage as he recognized the man who had shot him. The triple roar of his guns and Tom’s gun shook the whole barroom. Tom felt his hat jerk and slide on his head. He had one shot left, and he threw it with the cool care of a contest shoot.
The big .45 lead crashed into Ben Tag’s chest, sledgehammered him backward. That finished Ben Tag; that sort of shot would finish any man. Crimson foam was gushing through Ben Tag’s lips as he hit the floor with empty hands and doubled up, clawing weakly at his chest. Done for, shot twice through the middle, a minute or so to live, and yet Ben Tag sprayed blood as he strangled and gasped: “Hooker’ll get you, Fortune, damn you!”
Ben Tag’s eyes were blazing hate from the floor, and then he shuddered and died without speaking again.
Tom had turned to see if any others were taking up the fight. But heads were barely starting to peer cautiously out from behind tables and bar. It was hard to believe a roomful of men could get to cover so quickly. Snapping his gun full of fresh cartridges, Tom knelt behind Angus Gaylord, where he could also keep watch along the bar.
Gaylord had been struck in the hip by Ben Tag’s first low shot as the gun muzzle cleared the holster. Blood was soaking through the trouser cloth. Gaylord could speak through his pain. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“They came hunting a gunfight with you.”
“I don’t know them.”