“Mr. Curtis …!” the barfly began.
“Hold it, Syd,” cautioned the gambler. “Here, Sam.” He flipped a coin which the barber eagerly grabbed for. “Keep the change.”
“And five dollars for me!” mumbled the barfly.
Curtis frowned at the skinny man.
“You sure you’ve earned the five dollars, Syd?” he challenged.” The barfly nodded emphatically. Curtis donned his hat, gave his gunbelt a hitch, then slid an arm through the barfly’s and hustled him outside. They moved along to the porch of the next building. Curtis now lit a cigar. His voice was steady, as he said, “All right. Let’s hear it.”
“A big feller,” said the skinny man. “Just about the biggest hombre I ever saw in Lewisburg …”
“A giant?”
“Well—’way over six feet. I’d calculate near six feet five.”
“And hefty?”
“Yep. Plenty muscle. He come into Bailey’s a little while ago. Looks like he’s gonna check every saloon in town.”
“He asked for me—by name? You’re sure of that?”
“Damn right. Come right out and asked Lash Bailey for a gamblin’ man name of Jay Curtis. Said as how you rode up from Durrance a little while ago.”
Curtis eyes took on a cold expression as he voiced his next query.
“How much iron does he pack?”
“Six-shooter just like yours,” frowned his informant. “Longer barrel, maybe.” He licked his lips, fidgeting impatiently. “Five dollars you said, Mr. Curtis. Five dollars for the first man to warn you …”
“Do you see him?” demanded Curtis, frowning along the busy street.
The skinny barfly shaded his eyes against the sun glare, scanned the cross section of local humanity on the boardwalks, crossing the street, moving in and out of stores, offices and saloons.
“There he is now!” He tugged at Curtis’ sleeve. “Big hombre with the black hat and the denim jacket—just now goin’ into the Green Spade Casino …”
“Uh huh,” grunted Curtis. “I see him.”
He produced his wallet, extracted a five dollar bill which the skinny man eagerly grabbed for.
“What’re you gonna do now, Mr. Curtis?”
“It’s none of your business, Syd, but I’ll tell you anyway.” There was no humor in the gambler’s smile. “I’m gonna arrange a real sad disappointment for the owner of a Durrance saloon.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s all, Syd. You vamoose now.”
As the barfly made himself scarce, the gambler crossed Main Street, entered a side alley and strolled to its far end. By way of the rear laneway, he began a slow walk towards the block, in which the Green Spade Casino was located, a slow walk to his appointment with destiny. He was thinking of Trantor at this moment, and his thoughts were more derisive than indignant.
“It isn’t all that easy to get rid of me, Trantor. I guessed you’d hire a gun to come north and silence me. Well, I'm ready for him, Trantor. I’ve been ready—right from the moment I mailed the letter.”
It was his intention to deal with his would be assassin in a very old-fashioned way; the visiting gunman would be challenged from safe cover, then slain in the very act of drawing his sixgun. The killing would warrant front page treatment in a special edition of the Lewis County Courier, copies of which were bound to reach Durrance and come to the attention of the owner of the Cimarron Saloon. A bitter pill for Trantor to swallow.
“I’ll give you time to read about it in the Courier,” Curtis decided, “and then I’ll write you another letter— demanding a bigger share of that payroll. It’s exactly what you deserve, Trantor. I’ll bleed you dry, because I’ve always hated coyotes of your breed—the kind who hire others to handle their dirty work. Too bad you didn’t come for me in person, Trantor. Killing you would have been a greater pleasure.”
Reaching the rear of the saloon, he paused to consider his next move. The big man had been working his way uptown. It seemed reasonable to assume, therefore, that he would move past the mouth of the alley to Curtis’ right, when he emerged from the Green Spade. Grinning in anticipation, Curtis entered that alley and, for his vantage point chose the stack of empty beer kegs arranged by the side wall of the casino.
From here, he commanded a clear view of the alley’s front end. With a handgun, he was a better than average shot. The range would be perfect, he assured himself. Not too long. Not too short. The alley was narrow, no more than twenty feet wide. The building to the right was a double-storied affair, a general store with living quarters occupying its second story. There were windows, but Curtis was unconcerned, because every window was shut and the shade drawn. He drew and cocked his .45, rested the barrel on the metal hoop of the keg and began his short vigil.
The attitude of the management and staff of the Green Spade Casino had convinced Jim that his quarry was not far distant. He was, perhaps, becoming hypersensitive since embarking on his search for Chris’ murderer. Instincts had developed, reflexes had become sharper.
They eyed him askance, after assuring him they had never heard of a recently arrived gambler named Curtis. The owner of the casino was smooth talking and urbane, his bartenders and table hands were inclined to be abrupt and his percentage girls were cold-eyed, but all had one thing in common, from Jim’s point of view. Their denial was too prompt. None of them paused to search their memory, to consider a while, before answering.
“Never heard of him. Wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”
Their eyes followed him wherever he moved. What were they afraid of? he wondered. Well, it wasn’t necessarily fear that caused them to watch him so intently. Expectation? Sure. These people expected some kind of ruckus.
Curtis was here—somewhere in Lewisburg—of that he was certain. A lot of locals had been alerted, warned or bribed to pretend they were unaware of Curtis’ presence. The feeling persisted, and he couldn’t dismiss it.
He strode to the swing doors, nudged them open and moved out into the sunlight. Where next? Best to continue making his way north along the main street, he decided. He should reach the headquarters of the county sheriff very soon, and would pause there for a parley.
An elderly local passed the alley mouth, moving downtown. He was followed by a couple of bonneted housewives, also headed downtown. A small man, known to Curtis by sight, came past on his way uptown. And then, quite suddenly, the big man appeared, not walking past, but pausing in full sight of the gambler, reaching into his pockets for tobacco sack and papers. He was glancing towards the opposite boardwalk, and Curtis was drawing a bead on him, opening his mouth to yell a challenge when, with startling suddenness, the shrill sound smote his ears, his and Jim’s. A woman had screamed.
Jim whirled, his scalp crawling. He saw no sign of the woman who had screamed, but portion of a man was clearly visible—Curtis’ grim countenance, his gun hand, his gleaming .45 and the flash of red coinciding with the roar of the report. In that suspense filled moment, the big man moved fast.
Eight – Unanswered Question
The air wind of that first bullet fanned Jim’s face, as he flopped to his knees in the alley mouth. He was drawing and throwing himself flat, as Curtis triggered his second shot. Somewhere across the street a window was shattered. Jim heard that sound, also the sound of running footsteps as passersby scattered for cover. He was conscious of the danger to innocent parties, determined to silence that booming pistol as quickly as possible, when he drew a bead and squeezed trigger.
Simultaneous with the report, Curtis gave vent to a yell of pain and was buffeted clear of the stack of kegs; Jim’s bullet had gashed his neck. He was in plain view, crouching, mouthing curses and lining on Jim for another shot, when Jim fired again. He yelled again, shuddered from the impact of the slug and reeled sideways, crashing against the stack of kegs. An empty barrel toppled from the top of the stack and came rolling down, followed by a second and a third. Jim had to leap over the fourth. It rolled towards him as he rose up and hurried into the alley. O
ver his shoulder, he bellowed commands to the locals converging on the alley mouth.
“Somebody fetch a doctor—and the law! The rest of you stay back!”
Removing the smoking Colt from Curtis’ nerveless hand was no difficult chore. The gambler was sprawled on his back, groaning, gasping. It wasn’t the first time that the ex-sergeant of the 11th Cavalry had gazed upon a man close to death; he had watched friend and enemy die and had never become completely hardened. For this gambler he felt a certain sympathy—this gambler he had believed to be Jenner.
He raised Curtis slightly, cradling his head in the crook of his arm. They matched stares, as he opined:
“Your name really is Curtis.”
“Never—ever—changed it,” faltered Curtis. “And you—you’re the gun sent here—by that skunk Trantor—to shut my mouth.”
It was all too evident to Jim, now, that he had been duped. He was studying Curtis’ well-barbered thatch of dark hair, the thick brows, the hair on the backs of his hands. This man had never been blond. Had Trantor lied, or had Trantor honestly believed that Curtis was Jenner in disguise?
“I’d give—every dollar in my pockets,” breathed Curtis, “for a shot of good bourbon.”
“You wouldn’t rather brandy—raw brandy?” asked Jim.
It was a shot in the dark and no longer necessary. Curtis only eyed him blankly and asked:
“What kind—of a question—is that?”
“Let it pass,” frowned Jim.
“I was never partial—to brandy,” mumbled Curtis.
“They’ll be bringing a doctor any minute now,” said Jim. “Stay quiet. Save your strength.”
“What strength?” Curtis grinned crookedly. “Tell me something, big man. How much did Trantor pay you?”
“Not a cent,” said Jim.
This answer seemed to puzzle the dying man.
“You’d do this for him—no charge? Hell—you don’t look—like you’d be a friend to—a skunk like Trantor.”
“Trantor’s no friend of mine,” muttered Jim. “I’m hunting a killer, a back shooter named Jenner. Trantor convinced me that you were Jenner—with your hair dyed. He identified you from an artist’s sketch.”
“Smart,” sighed Curtis. “Real—smart. He can—go ahead with his big plan. I’m the only—other party—knows about it. A dead man—can’t blackmail anybody.”
“Do you mean Trantor’s planning something crooked?” demanded Jim. He studied the gambler’s pallid visage with great intensity. “Listen, Curtis, if you want revenge against Trantor, all you have to do is tell me about his plan.”
“So you can blackmail him?” grinned Curtis.
“So I can settle his hash,” countered Jim.
“All right …” Curtis grimaced, licked his lips. “I’ll—tell you the score …”
But he said nothing more. His eyes closed and he lost consciousness. Impatiently, Jim glowered at the bug-eyed locals in the alley mouth. He was suddenly grateful that they could not overhear his brief conversation with Curtis.
“How long does it take to scare up a doctor in this town?” he called to them.
“Doc’s on his way,” frowned a bearded towner. “Sheriff, too.”
“Amigo Jim …!” It was the voice of Benito Espina, followed by the runty carcass of that same nondescript Mexican, struggling through the tight packed crowd. His dark eyes dilated, as he observed the condition of the unconscious gambler’s chest. “¡Ay caramba! Amigo Jim—you are wounded, no?”
“No,” growled Jim. Gently, he lowered Curtis’ head. As he stood up, he produced his makings and began building a smoke. “I’ll be headed for the law office soon. You can wait for me there.”
The Mex needed no second bidding. He had disappeared by the time the medico and a deputy arrived. The doctor was lean, gaunt and grouchy, the deputy stout, elderly and affable. Clinging to the deputy’s arm was a thin, frightened-looking woman aged sixty or thereabouts. She kept her gaze averted from the bloodied figure sprawled on the ground, while the doctor made his examination. To Jim, the deputy calmly remarked:
“We know you gunned this jasper in self-defense. This here is Lucy May Hillyard. It was her that screamed.”
“I just opened a window and looked down …”
She gestured in agitation. Jim raised his eyes to the open window overlooking the alley on its right side, then looked at the woman and offered his thanks.
“I’m in your debt, ma’am. If you hadn’t screamed, I wouldn’t have moved. If I hadn’t moved—I could be dead.”
“It was terrible!” she groaned. “Terrible!”
“Lucy May and her man run the store next door here,” said the deputy, jerking a thumb. “Guess this was your lucky day, eh? The way she tells it, the tinhorn had a bead on you.”
“Stretcher,” grunted the doctor.
“Sure,” nodded the deputy. “Luke and Georgie are on their way.”
“I want this man taken to my surgery rightaway,” said the doctor, rising to his feet.
“He got any kind of chance?” asked the deputy.
“A slim one,” frowned the medico. “I believe I can reach the bullet. That might help—or it mightn’t make any difference.” He muttered orders to the shocked woman. “I want you to take a couple of those pills, Lucy May. You remember the pills I gave you last month? Two of those—and then go to bed and stay there the rest of the day. Tell your husband I said it’s doctor’s orders.”
“Abel.” The deputy nodded to a man in the crowd. “Take her along.” He handed the woman into care of the local, waited until she had been led out of earshot before asking Jim, “Can you tell us why the tinhorn wanted to kill you?”
“No.” Jim’s mind had been turning over fast, considering many facts of possible importance, especially the fact that Trantor had deliberately deceived him. For the time being his chief enemy would be Trantor, not Jenner. The murderer of Chris Rand was probably a long way from Lewisburg. “No. I have nothing but hunches.”
“My old boss, the sheriff of this here county, was born curious,” drawled the deputy. “I reckon he’ll want to listen to your hunches.”
“I’ll be glad to talk to him,” shrugged Jim.
He ejected his spent shells, tugged fresh ones from his belt and reloaded. While he was thus occupied, a towner thrust himself to the fore and asserted:
“It looked like you and the tinhorn were talkin’.”
“How about that?” the deputy asked Jim. “Did he say anything?”
“No.” Jim had no qualms about the lie. “I asked questions. His mouth was working, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t make any sound.”
“And he never will,” announced the doctor, who had bent for another examination of the stricken gambler.
“Dead, eh, Doc?” prodded the deputy.
“Just now,” nodded the medico. “Well, that’s no surprise. There was extensive bleeding, and the bullet was very close to the heart. We’ll still need the stretcher—but not to take him to my surgery.”
Walking uptown with the deputy a short time later, Jim came to a decision. In his mind, he rehearsed the explanation he would offer the Lewis County sheriff. He had been used, manipulated by the unscrupulous Trantor. Too bad Curtis had lost consciousness without confiding all the facts, but one fact had been made clear. The gambler had been a danger to Trantor, and this was obviously Trantor’s motive for lying to Jim, for tricking him into riding north to Lewisburg. How much of this would he report to the local law? None of it. Why give Trantor fair warning? Better to lull that smooth-talking schemer into a false sense of security.
He saw another advantage in his pretending to accept Curtis and Jenner as one and the same. The real Jenner would relax and become careless, believing that another gambler had paid for his vicious crime. Of course this would depend on the extent of the Courier’s circulation, the chances of Jenner’s acquiring a copy and reading of his own supposed demise.
The sheriff’s office and jail prove
d to be a sizeable, double storied structure of sandstone and clapboard. The boss lawman and the other deputy were awaiting the big stranger and, as Jim and the first deputy entered, another local came hustling in on their heels. He was slight of build and short of breath, panting heavily, a bright-eyed little man in striped suit and tan derby. The silvery haired sheriff greeted him nonchalantly, “Howdy, Marv. Better late than never, eh?”
“Me and my lousy luck,” fretted the little man. “I had to be way uptown—squatting in a hot tub at Gersten’s bath house! First shooting we’ve had in five months, and I’m too far away to even hear the shots.” He helped himself to a chair, produced a wad of paper and a stub of pencil, eyed the big man expectantly. “Name?”
Jim subjected him to a bleak stare.
“You’ll hear mine,” he offered, “after I’ve heard yours.” The sheriff chuckled good humoredly. The other deputy, younger and slimmer than his colleagues, grinned mildly and told Jim, “Marve Melrose forgets his manners sometimes. I guess he thinks newspapermen are entitled to take liberties.”
“You already met Deputy Sims,” observed the sheriff. “The young one is my nephew, Nate Marraday. I’m Vern Kelsey—and you?”
Jim offered his name and credentials, the document issued upon his mustering out of the 11th. The newspaperman scribbled busily, while Jim told of his long search for his brother’s killer. In conclusion, he drawled the lie calculated to put the real Jenner off guard.
“A friend in Durrance figured this Curtis hombre might be the same man I've been hunting. Well, it turns out he was right. Now that I’ve seen Curtis, I’m sure he’s the man who called himself Jenner—at the same time he killed my brother.”
“Quite a story, Marv,” suggested Sims, winking at the younger deputy. “Good enough for a special edition?”
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