“Things happen,” shrugged Clay.
“The man you shot last night,” frowned Trantor, “was one of my employees—and a mighty valuable man.”
“And too proddy for his own good,” said Clay, coldly.
“I’m not saying you had no right to defend yourself,” muttered Trantor. “I only want you to understand that Burch’s death could be …” He paused to search his vocabulary for an apt word, “could be inconvenient.”
“If you need another poker dealer,” suggested Clay, “hire another poker dealer.”
Yuill chuckled, but became silent when Trantor frowned at him. The fat lawman quietly remarked:
“He’s a real cold one, ain’t he?”
“Ernie,” said Larkin, “I just hope you know what you’re doin’.”
“When it comes to judging human nature, I consider myself an expert,” drawled Trantor. “I’ll admit I was wrong about Curtis, but I think I made up for it by using Rand.” He stared hard at the impassive Clay. “I’m not wrong about this hombre, not by a long shot. He’ll do. He’ll do fine.”
“I’m listening to a lot of talk,” said Clay, “and waiting for somebody to make sense.”
“I sent for you to give you a chance of buying in on a big deal,” Trantor told him. “There’s a fat passel of dinero involved, Morrison. I don’t know how many really big jobs you’ve pulled, or whether you ever worked with an organization before, but …”
“I’ve always been a loner,” said Clay, “but maybe it’s time for a change.”
His mind was in turmoil, and an odd thought came to him in the midst of this confusion and disquiet. He should take up the game of poker, or maybe become an actor. Hell’s bells, if he could maintain a calm exterior under these conditions …
“Your share would be a fifth of fifty thousand,” said Trantor. “You could win ten thousand green men the easy way.”
“It won’t be quite that easy,” argued Larkin.
“Better we should explain Morrison the whole set-up,” mumbled Lundy, “and then let him decide.”
“What I’m telling you now, Morrison, is important information,” said Trantor, “the kind of information that doesn’t come easy. It took me many months of spying and checking, but it was worth the trouble.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desktop. “Here’s how it stacks up. On the twentieth day of every third month, the garrison of Fort Gearey always seems to have plenty of money to spend. They spend it at Drago, those soldier boys, and always at the same time—the twentieth of every third month.”
“So you can bet your boots they get paid on the nineteenth,” said Yuill.
“And that garrison force is a big outfit—the entire Fourth Territorial Infantry,” continued Trantor. “A lot of men—paid only once in three months.”
“It tallies to fifty thousand dollars,” grunted Lundy. “We know that for a fact.”
“Drago, the town close to the fort, has no bank,” Trantor explained. “The nearest sizeable town is Brent City to the north. Three banks there. And on the nineteenth of every third month, a supply wagon travels from Fort Gearey to Brent City and back again, with a five-man escort. Would that wagon go all the way to Brent City for routine provisions, with Drago so close? Not by a long shot. Any fool could guess what that wagon will be carrying.”
“A cargo of dinero,” grinned Yuill.
“After scouting every mile of the route between Brent City and the fort, I’ve decided the ideal site for an ambush would be Warsmoke Pass,” announced Trantor. “Four of us could do it, Morrison, but no less than four. I’d want two of us staked out on either side of the trail. There’ll be six of them but, with the element of surprise in our favor, we’ll have the edge.”
“You own a fast cayuse, Morrison?” enquired Lundy. “Well, it don’t matter. Horses are Ed’s business. All four of you will be forkin’ the fastest horses ever bred hereabouts.”
“Built for speed,” nodded Larkin.
“I know every short cut,” said Trantor, in conclusion, “and a dozen ways we can kill our back trail while we’re headed home to Durrance. We leave before dawn of the nineteenth, head straight for the pass and take up our positions. I estimate the wagon will be returning from Brent City around late morning or early afternoon.”
“We’ll be home about sundown,” said Yuill.
Clay had to say something. His continued silence—the silence of acute shock—might arouse their suspicion, causing doubts about him, and this he couldn’t risk. He felt like a naked and unarmed wanderer who had fallen into a pit of sleeping reptiles. One wrong move, and …
“Where does the fat man figure in the deal?” he demanded, jerking a thumb at Lundy.
“Gus is our ace-in-the-hole,” said Trantor. “It isn’t likely any search party could reach Durrance ahead of us, but, if they do, Gus will stall ’em. He’s our alibi. He’ll claim to have been with us for most of the day, right here at the saloon. Chances are we won’t need an alibi at all, Morrison, but I’m a man who believes in insurance.”
“Uh huh.” It was a masterly piece of stagecraft and, somehow, Clay managed it. He yawned, and appeared completely at his ease, and his exterior was in great contrast to the turmoil within him. Look calm, even if you don’t feel it, he kept warning himself. It’s your only chance. “There’s a lot to be said for insurance,” he drawled.
“You gotta admit Ernie thought of everything,” said Lundy.
“Sure enough,” nodded Clay. “Ernie thought of everything.”
“We need a fourth gun, Morrison,” said Trantor. “So what do you say?”
And Clay was thinking:
“Here it comes. I have to say it just right, or they’ll see clear through me. If I sound too eager, I'm in trouble. If I sound reluctant, I’m in worse trouble.”
He eyed Trantor steadily, pursed his lips and, for a pregnant moment, gave the impression of thinking it all over. Then, with well-contrived nonchalance, he told the saloonkeeper, “All right—I’ll go along with it.”
Trantor nodded approvingly. Lundy grinned blandly and Larkin shrugged, while the scar-faced Yuill cheerfully remarked, “We’re all set—and the nineteenth is gettin’ close.”
“Where are you staying?” Trantor asked Clay.
“Downtown,” said Clay. “The Augusta.”
“That bug trap?” grinned Yuill. “Well, I guess it’s a good a place as any.”
“Between now and the nineteenth, stick close to us,” said Trantor. “Do all your drinking here at the Cimarron—and I guess I don’t have to’ warn you to guard your tongue. We can always count on Gus’ help, but this burg still has plenty of do-gooders. I don’t run the whole territory, Morrison.”
“That’s right,” said Clay, and he summoned up a wry grin. “You only control the Cimarron Saloon—and the local law.”
“You leery of lawmen that try to earn an extra dollar?” Lundy boredly challenged.
“We’re all in this for money,” shrugged Clay, with all the world weariness of a veteran outlaw.
“That’s right,” said Trantor, bluntly. “All that matters a damn is the money—that fifty thousand dollar payroll.”
“Speakin’ for myself, I wish tomorrow was gonna be the nineteenth,” muttered Larkin. “I was never a man for waitin’.”
“Don’t worry, Ed,” drawled Trantor. “The time is getting close—mighty close.”
Seven – Deadly Decision
By the time that meeting adjourned, Clay Morrow needed a stiff shot of raw liquor to steady his nerves; more than any other time in his whole life, he needed it now. But he was loath to drink with the conspirators at this time, fearful that his apprehension might give him away. How much longer could he hide his feelings behind an impassive mask?
In response to Trantor’s offer of a drink, he shook his head, rose from his chair and said, “No, thanks. I’d as soon drink downstairs—with Jo.” He essayed a jest. “You hombres are friendly enough, but she’s prettier.”
Larkin’s grim expression didn’t change. Trantor shrugged in the manner of a man too preoccupied for levity. Lundy and Yuill chuckled good humoredly. As Clay turned and ambled to the door, Trantor thought to ask:
“How are you fixed for cash?”
“I can hold out,” Clay assured him, “till I collect my cut of that payroll loot.”
Yuill opened the door for him, his grin contorting his scarred visage. He moved out into the gallery, after which Yuill re-closed the door and opined to the boss thief: “He’ll do.”
“Sure,” agreed Trantor. “If I hadn’t been ninety percent sure, I’d never have propositioned him.”
“For my money,” muttered Larkin, “he’s too damn sure of himself.”
“Let’s be thankful, Ed,” drawled the marshal. “What d’you want? Some nervous fool that might spook at the last moment and foul up the whole deal?”
“Morrison,” Trantor firmly asserted, “is just the kind of man we need.”
Clay did a great deal of thinking in the short time it took him to descend those stairs and join Joanna Gifford at a corner table. Two other faces were clear and compelling to his mind’s eye, the faces of his son and daughter, freckled, gap-toothed, always laughing.
“I’m the most pathetic fool in all creation, because I never knew when I was well off. I never knew—until I lost everything.”
The barkeep brought a bottle, two glasses and a pitcher of water to the table. Joanna poured a double shot for Clay, half-filled a glass for herself and added water. Her smile was as knowing as ever, when they toasted each other. She knew the answer to her question while voicing it.
“You’re with us, Cole?”
“With you all the way,” he drawled, grateful for the feel of the raw rye coursing to his vitals. “I like the set up—so Trantor didn’t have to work hard to convince me.” He crossed his legs, set his glass down and began rolling a cigarette. Again a poignant memory assailed him; he was suddenly yearning for his pipe, missing it. Poignant memories and rising fears; it seemed there was no room in his brain for anything else. Hope? Was there any hope for him? To whom could he turn? He tried to sound casual, as he enquired of the woman:
“Who is Rand?”
“Rand?” She raised her eyebrows.
“While we were talking about that army payroll,” said Clay, dropping his voice, “Trantor mentioned a feller called Rand. And another—name of Curtis.”
“Oh—those two.” She nodded knowingly. “Well, I guess we’ll never see them again.”
“I thought Rand might’ve been a feller I once knew,” he prodded.
“You’d never forget this Rand,” she assured him, “if you’d ever known him. He’s a big one—all of six-four—and hefty. Ernie tricked him into ridin’ north after Curtis. Curtis was a tinhorn who learned of Trantor’s plan and offered to keep his mouth shut—for a share of the loot.”
“Blackmail,” mused Clay.
“Rand’s lookin’ for some tinhorn who killed his kid brother,” she explained. “That’s what made it easy for Ernie to get rid of Curtis. All he had to do was convince Rand that Curtis is the feller he’s lookin’ for.”
“Ernie’s a smart one,” he thoughtfully conceded.
“Don’t ever doubt it,” she drawled. “I’d bet a half-year’s earnings that his plan will work. We get the Lewisburg newspaper twice a week here. Ernie figures the next edition will carry a report of Curtis’ death—in a gunfight with Big Jim Rand—and that’ll be that. No more worries about big eared Jay Curtis.”
“The man you speak of,” frowned Clay, “doesn’t sound like the same Rand I knew.”
He forced himself to maintain the pretense of enjoying her company, of being interested in everything she had to say, while only half-listening. His thoughts had turned to Jim Rand now. Here in Durrance, was there anybody to whom he could appeal for help in this time of crisis? It didn’t seem likely. If he interviewed the mayor or any members of the town council, how could he be sure that Trantor would not be advised? Trantor probably had spies everywhere. He was a stranger in a strange land and could think of only one man who might extricate him from this potentially lethal predicament. Jim Rand gave the impression of being wise to the ways of the lawless, and doggedly opposed to them. If he confessed the sorry truth to the big man, he might win a much needed ally.
Time would tell. It would depend on what had transpired—or was about to happen—in Lewisburg. If Trantor’s scheme succeeded, Jim Rand would quit Lewisburg under the misapprehension that he had at last located and punished his brother’s murderer. But maybe Trantor’s scheme would fail; there could be a hitch of some kind and, if the big man smelled a rat, he might become curious about Trantor and return to Durrance. It seemed a slim hope, but it was all Clay had, so he would cling to it, tenaciously.
~*~
The big river had subsided to a level that offered a safe crossing. Since that time, Jim Rand and the Mex had travelled at a steady pace, covering the miles that separated the border town from the sprawling plains of Southwest Kansas and the cattle range of Lewis County.
It was a quarter of ten on an uncomfortably warm morning when the manhunter caught his first sight of Lewisburg, the big town that would soon rival Wichita in importance, now that it had become a railhead. Even at this considerable distance, Jim could see the network of plank corrals and loading pens bordering the gleaming railroad tracks.
Benito, covertly studying his large companion from under the floppy brim of his sombrero, remarked:
“This could be the place, eh, Amigo Jim?”
“Could be.” Jim nodded slowly, staring ahead. “On the other hand, it could be another blind lead. I might search all over this town and find nobody that even heard of Curtis.”
“But the owner of this cantina in Durrance,” mused Benito, “he is sure you will find your man here.” He showed his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Amigo, I think it will be easier for this back shooter to find you—no? He has seen you. He would know you again and he would keep out of your way.”
“And maybe take a shot at me from a back alley or a roof.” Jim shrugged philosophically. “Yeah. I already thought of that, but it’s a risk I have to take.”
“It will be wiser if I take care of the caballo negro,” Benito politely suggested. “These animals need rest.”
“So you’ll take Hank and Captain Cortez to a livery stable,” jibed Jim, “and stay clear of me—in case Jenner and Curtis are one and the same. You never did relish to get shot at, did you, cucaracha?”
“You blame me?” leered the Mex.
“I guess not.” Jim shrugged again. “Getting shot at isn’t exactly a barrel of fun.”
“I am muy sediento,” the Mex complained, as they drew closer to Lewisburg’s southern outskirts. “We have drink all your whisky, my amigo, and our canteens are empty. My throat is dry.”
“We could be a sight worse off,” drawled Jim. “At least there’s a town dead ahead, and that’s better than being stuck in the middle of a desert. Count your blessings, cucaracha. In less than a quarter-hour, we’ll be drinking in a Lewisburg saloon.”
“I will …” began Benito.
“I know,” nodded Jim. “You’ll have tequila.”
His thirst was, in actual fact, a minor reason for his calling a halt outside the first saloon in the first block of Lewisburg’s main street. A more important reason was the profession followed by the murderer of Lieutenant Christopher Rand. The killer was a tinhorn, plying his trade in the seedy houses of entertainment infecting all frontier towns. Jim would interview Lewisburg’s lawmen sooner or later. In the meantime he was just as likely to learn of his quarry’s whereabouts in a saloon as anywhere else.
Having looped their reins over the hitch rail, they stepped up to the boardwalk and entered the saloon. This was a small place and almost deserted. The bald headed barkeep picked his teeth, perused a newspaper and showed little interest in the newcomers. A couple of aged locals sat on a bench under a
side window, nursing tankards of beer, puffing on corncobs and conversing in undertones. In the corner nearest the bar, a skinny man in shabby town clothes sat alone, squinting moodily at his half-empty glass. There was no tinkling piano. It was quiet in here, somewhat of a contrast to the hustle and bustle outside on Main Street.
The barkeep discarded his newspaper to wait upon his new customers, a tall beer for the big man, tequila for the Mex. When he voiced his query, Jim referred to his quarry by the last alias given him, the name ‘Curtis’ as told him by Trantor.
“Never heard of him,” grunted the barkeep, and his moonface remained inscrutable.
“About average height,” prodded Jim. “A gambler who doesn’t enjoy losing. He came north from Durrance a little while back.” He eased his thirst with a few swallows of beer, propped an elbow on the bar and eyed the barkeep expectantly. “Haven’t there been any strangers in Lewisburg this past two weeks?”
“None that I’d know of,” said the barkeep.
He accepted payment for their drinks, made change, then returned to his perusal of the paper. Jim nudged the Mex, finished his beer and started for the door. Benito gulped the rest of his tequila and hustled after him. As the batwings ceased swinging, the skinny man rose from his seat at the corner table. Grinning wryly, the barkeep remarked, “Here’s where you earn yourself five dollars, eh, Syd?”
The skinny barfly ignored that comment and made a fast exit, not through the main entrance but by way of a rear doorway. Along a back alley he hurried, his first destination a rundown hotel on a side street. He glimpsed the big stranger several times, as he passed narrower alleys that opened into Main Street. No sign of the Mex. Just the big man alone, moving unhurriedly along the far boardwalk.
Reaching the side street, he made his way to the small hotel, only to be told by the desk clerk:
“Not here right now. Try the Buckhorn Bar.”
At that noisy establishment, a bartender assured the skinny man that he would find the party he sought at McMurtry’s, an uptown barber shop. And there at McMurtry’s, as the skinny man arrived, the sardonic Jay Curtis was rising from the barber’s chair, studying his reflection in the mirror, while the barber flicked a brush over the shoulders of his well-tailored coat.
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