Close Call

by Clinton Spurr

  “So this is it, Lassiter,” he said. “If you know any prayers then you better say them. You don’t have long left. Thanks for coming back and making my job so easy. When I didn’t get you after Beutel was shot I figured I had overplayed my hand. But it’s worked out even better than I figured. Luck must be riding with me! That’s all I ask for.”

  “You’ll change your mind soon as you’ve killed me, Sheriff,” Lassiter said tightly. He could see Milton’s trigger finger crooked around the trigger and whitening under the pressure that was being applied. He knew he was standing in the gateway to hell, and he was surprised that his fear was non existent. But he knew regret because his father was dead and he could not nail the killer! It was the only regret he had at that moment.

  “What are you trying to pull now, Lassiter?” Milton demanded, suspicion in his face.

  “You kill me now and you can’t take care of everyone else standing in your way. I can’t take the blame for killing someone between now and tomorrow if it can be proved that I died around this time today.”

  Milton stood thoughtful for a moment, and then he nodded. But his face showed suspicion. He was a cunning man, quick to see the issues, but he was puzzled.

  “How come you’re helping me to get the better of you?” he demanded.

  “I don’t want to die here and now,” Lassiter retorted. “While there’s life there’s hope.”

  “You figure you might get the better of me somehow, huh?” The sheriff chuckled harshly. “Not a chance. I won’t kill you now because what you said was right. But you won’t get away from me. I’m no fool! I’ve been taking men prisoner and holding them for a long time.”

  “So what are you gonna do with me now?” Lassiter demanded.

  “I got a place to put you. I’ll keep you on ice until tomorrow, then come back and kill you when I’ve got rid of everyone in my way. You’ll take the blame for it all. You’ll have quite a reputation by the time I get through.”

  Lassiter firmed his lips. He had gained time, but he didn’t see what he could do to outwit this killer. He would have to play along and await any opportunity which might present itself. He moved when Milton motioned with his gun.

  “Let’s go fetch your hoss, and then collect mine,” the sheriff said. “I got a pair of cuffs in my saddlebag. You won’t get away with much when I slip them on your wrists.”

  Lassiter moved to the spot where he had left his horse, and then led the animal out, following Milton’s directions, until they reached the lawman’s horse. Lassiter knew he would be in worse trouble if he was manacled, but he didn’t see how he could avoid it. He watched while Milton took the cuffs from his saddlebag, and the sheriff grinned.

  “Okay, flat on your face and put your hands in the small of your back. One wrong move will be your last.”

  Lassiter had to obey, and while he lay helpless with his hands behind him the sheriff snapped the cuffs on his wrists.

  “Now get up and mount,” Milton retorted. “We got some riding to do. I called off the posses today because I didn’t want them getting in the way. I thought of everything.”

  Lassiter couldn’t get into his saddle unaided, and he tensed when Milton grabbed hold of him and boosted him up into leather. But he was helpless with his hands behind his back, and he had to use his knees to stay in the saddle when Milton had mounted and started leading his horse out.

  They went off to the south, and Lassiter was grim inside, knowing that he’d lost out in this gamble. He looked around as they rode, hoping for help from any quarter, but with Frank and Charlie Logan wounded and in jail there was no one he could look to for help. He was on his own and very much at the crooked lawman’s mercy.

  They went on, and Lassiter realized they were making for a remote area of the range. He knew the country intimately, and wondered where they would finish up. Soon he guessed they were making for a derelict horse ranch, and he gazed around hopelessly, knowing they wouldn’t meet another man in this part of the county.

  “It’s the old Redfern place we’re making for, huh?” Lassiter demanded at length.

  “Sure. Nobody ever goes there, and you’ll be safe until tomorrow morning. I’ll do the killings tonight and then come for you early. You got less than a day left, Lassiter. After all this time I finally got you.”

  There was triumph in Milton’s tough tones and Lassiter clenched his hands futilely behind his back. He said no more until they came in sight of the run-down ranch, and he looked around hopefully as they entered the weed grown yard and halted before the ruined building. The roof had caved in and the walls were sagging. The atmosphere was one of isolation and depression, and Lassiter tried to bolster his flagging spirits as he stared around.

  “Right nice place this,” Milton said, stepping down from his saddle. “I reckon you’ll be safe enough here. Get down.”

  Lassiter kicked his left foot from the stirrup and swung his leg across the saddle, leaning far to the left to keep his balance. He kicked his right foot clear with a little spring, and landed heavily on his heels on the hard ground, losing his balance and sprawling. Milton came around the horses and grabbed him by the shoulders, jerking him upright.

  “Don’t try anything,” the sheriff warned. “You’d have to get up real early in the morning to get the better of me.”

  Lassiter said nothing. He was wondering where Milton planned on leaving him, and he stared around curiously. If he was going to be left here for almost a day then he’d have plenty of time trying to escape.

  Milton pushed him in the direction he wanted them to go, and Lassiter stumbled sideways. They crossed to the well nearby, and Lassiter frowned when the sheriff took hold of the rotten planks lying across the well and threw them aside. A grin touched the lawman’s face as he looked up at Lassiter.

  “That’s right,” he said, interpreting Lassiter’s expression. “You’re going down there. It’s about sixty feet deep. You wouldn’t get out of there in a month of Sundays without a rope and someone at the top to hold it. Now stand where you are, and don’t try anything.”

  With his hands manacled behind him, there was nothing Lassiter could do. He waited and watched while Milton brought his horse beside the well, then uncoiled the rope hanging from his saddlehorn. The sheriff threw one end of the rope into the well, then hitched the other end to his saddlehom.

  “Down on your face,” he commanded, turning to Lassiter and drawing his gun.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Lassiter said numbly, and now his last hopes began to flee. He took a deep breath, intending to make a fight for it as soon as the cuffs were removed from his wrists, but Milton came at him, hitting him with a heavy shoulder and tripping him at the same time. Lassiter went down heavily, and Milton kicked him in the ribs for good measure. The next instant the lawman’s gun barrel clipped him sharply alongside the head, and a black curtain seemed to drop in front of Lassiter’s eyes. But he didn’t lose consciousness, and he realized that the blow hadn’t been intended to knock him cold.

  He felt his wrists being freed, and the next instant Milton was grabbing him and heaving him up on to his feet. He sprawled against the low brick wall surrounding the well, his senses whirling, and for one horrible moment he teetered on the very brink and almost pitched down the steep shaft. Mliton grasped him and steadied him, then stepped back and waited for him to regain his full senses once more.

  “Okay,” the sheriff said finally in his rasping tones. “Climb down that rope into the well. There’s no water in the bottom. You can sit down there until I come for you tomorrow. Make it quick. I got a lot to do when I leave you here.”

  Lassiter stared at the lawman, and there was murderous intent in Milton’s expression. He knew it would be useless trying to talk the sheriff out of his determined plans, and he figured that he would die quickly if he tried to jump the man. Milton was standing well back out of reach, and the big gun in his hand was master of the situation. Letting his shoulders sag, Lassiter turned to the well and
leaned over to peer down into the depths.

  The bottom of the well was shrouded with shadows, the sides smooth and hard. It was about six feet in diameter, and a good sixty feet deep. The rope dangled down the side, its end disappearing into the indistinctness at the bottom, and Lassiter thinned his lips as he took hold of the rope and swung his legs over the low wall. He stared around at the watchful Milton, saw the vicious grin on the man’s face, and smiled thinly.

  “Your day will come, Milton,” he said.

  “You won’t be around to see it, Lassiter. Now get down that hole before I finish you off now and drop you in on your thick head.”

  The gun waggled ominously, and Lassiter took a deep breath. He lowered himself into the mouth of the well and began to go down the rope hand over hand. He had descended some ten feet when the faint light inside the well darkened perceptibly, and he looked up to see the sheriff peering in at him. He kept lowering himself, steeled against the worst, and when the sheriff’s voice came to him it echoed eerily, completely distorted by the confining walls.

  The rope just reached the bottom of the well, which was dry and rocky. Lassiter let go of the rope, and it was immediately pulled up. He stood motionless, staring upwards, watching Milton’s head and shoulders, until the man disappeared abruptly and full silence came. Then he sighed heavily, breathing shallowly of the cold air, and he looked around hopelessly. This was a prison without bars, and it was foolproof.

  Lassiter waited tense seconds in a kind of paralysed shock. His senses were still reeling from the blow he had been dealt, and the information that Milton had given him on the situation was such that he could barely assimilate it. He heard the echoing sound of hoofs as Milton rode away, and then full silence came and it seemed thick and heavy, oppressive and overpowering.

  The well was too wide for Lassiter to work his way up by pressing his back against one side and his feet against the other, and when he tried to climb he found it impossible to get hand or footholds. He stared up at the circle of light far above his head, and knew he would be wasting his efforts and strength by attempting to escape. Milton had certainly known what he was about when he’d thought of the well for a prison.

  There was nothing that Lassiter could use as a tool to try and dig handholds into the smooth sides of the shaft. His fingers could make no impression upon the hard packed earth. He broke his fingernails trying to dig into the sides, and finally gave up trying and sat down on the rocky bottom and tried to relax.

  As far as he could see there would be one slim chance of getting the better of Milton when the sheriff returned, and that was in the short time before he was handcuffed. When Milton made him lie face down with his hands behind his back he would have to attempt something, even if it meant collecting a bullet. Milton was going to kill him anyway. He had nothing to lose.

  Lassiter felt his determination throb powerfully as he let his thoughts run over what had happened. It took some believing that the sheriff was behind all the trouble, but then he realized that Milton had always been a strange man for sheriff. He was hard and tough, merciless in his treatment of wrongdoers. Now he had overstepped the mark and let his vicious instincts have full sway. He had to be stopped, but the problem was how.

  It galled Lassiter to be down the well, unbound but as helpless as if he were tied hand and foot. He sat considering, going over every eventuality, but there was nothing he could do. He was sixty feet below ground level, and without a rope he was as good as dead and buried.

  Time passed him by unmeasured, and it was chilly in the bottom of the well. He sat staring up at the circle of light far above his head, filled with blind and futile hope. There was no chance of anyone riding by and finding him. He didn’t think three people had ridden through here in the past six months.

  Then he heard a sound, and at first he couldn’t believe it. He stood up and froze into a listening attitude, thinking that his imagination was playing him tricks. Then he heard a sound similar to that which had assailed him as the sheriff rode off, and he recognised it as hoofbeats. He caught his breath, afraid that the sheriff had returned, but he took a chance and shouted echoingly, wondering if some passer-by might hear his muted voice. He yelled at the top of his voice, mentally crossing his fingers, and then he paused to see if there was some reaction. The next moment he heard a thin voice demanding his whereabouts.

  Lassiter shouted again then, filling the well with noise. He stared upwards, almost willing someone’s head and shoulders to appear, and when the aperture above him darkened with the upper part of a human body he was weak with relief.

  “Hello,” he shouted. “Have you got a rope?”

  “Dane! This is Paula! Why has the sheriff left you down there?”

  Paula Hendrik! Lassiter had forgotten about the girl. But she had been on her way to Blue Ridge to meet him. He took a deep shuddering breath.

  “Paula, listen to me,” he called. “There’s no time to lose. The sheriff is nowhere around up there, is he?”

  “Not now. I followed him some way after he rode out of here just to see where he was going. He started back to town.”

  “Thank God. But have you got a rope with you?”

  “No. I don’t carry such a thing. But the sheriff unsaddled your horse in a draw about a mile from here, and he left the animal in cover. There’s a rope on your saddlehorn, isn’t there?”

  “Sure. Will you go fetch it?”

  “I will. Shan’t be long.”

  The girl’s head and shoulders moved away, and Lassiter found himself breathing heavily as he considered. Paula must have seen Milton taking him away from Blue Ridge, and she had been sensible enough to follow. He hoped Milton had left the area. If the sheriff returned and found the girl then there would be hell to pay.

  Time seemed to drag now, and Lassiter was beside himself with impatience. He needed to get back to ground level and find a gun. That was all he asked. He would take his chances in a shoot out, but he wanted to be on even terms.

  Paula returned eventually, and Lassiter could scarcely contain his feelings.

  “I’ve got the rope,” the girl said. “I saddled up your horse and brought it along. There’s no sign of the sheriff.”

  “Good. Fix one end of the rope to the saddlehom and drop the other end to me. Hold the horse still and I’ll climb out of here.”

  The girl’s head and shoulders disappeared, and Lassiter waited tensely, his hopes high. When the rope came snaking down towards him he moistened his lips, then gritted his teeth. He could just reach the end of the rope, and he waited for Paula to look in at him.

  “It’s okay,” she called. “Come on up, Dane.”

  He set his teeth and took a grip on the rope, starting to climb slowly. He didn’t seem to make much progress at first, but he soon got the hang of climbing, and used his legs as well to secure a hold on the rope. But by the time he reached the top of the well he was breathless and nearly done.

  Paula grasped his shoulders as he swarmed over the wall of the well and then fell to his knees on the dusty ground in strong sunlight. He remained crouching, staring around, afraid that his change of luck would desert him, and when his strength returned he pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the girl, who was laboriously coiling his rope.

  “I’ve always been happy to set eyes on you, Paula,” he said in relieved tones, and his voice was raspy with emotion. “But this time I’ll never forget. Where did you come from? How did you manage to find me here?”

  “I saw the sheriff taking you away from our rendezvous,” the girl said simply. “I almost rode into you, but heard your hoofs, luckily. Then I was tempted to show myself, but I heard the sheriff talking to you, and when he didn’t head for town I just had to stay back and find out what was going on. I daren’t get too close, so I didn’t see what had happened to you when you arrived here. When the sheriff rode out with your horse and you not in the saddle I began to worry, but I hadn’t heard any shots. I followed the sheriff to make sure he was
leaving, and then I came back to look for you.”

  “Thank God you did,” Lassiter said fervently, and he crossed to her side and took her into his arms. “There’s so much trouble come to us that I don’t hardly know where to begin to fight it. But we’ve got to move fast, Paula. Milton is planning on murdering a number of people to put them out of the way, and your father is one of them. We’ve got to get out of here and I need to find a gun.”

  “I’ve got a rifle, but no spare shells,” Paula told him steadily. “You can tell me what’s happened while we’re riding.”

  Lassiter nodded and kissed her again, then fetched the rifle from her saddleboot. He gripped the weapon thankfully, and his expression showed his thoughts as he checked it. Now he had a chance again, and he meant to take it...

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AFTER Lassiter had explained the situation to the girl, he found himself faced with a great decision to make. He knew he had to stop the sheriff from carrying out his intentions of killing the people he figured to be in his way. But he was a wanted killer, and the moment he showed his face around town he would be arrested and jailed. Once in the sheriff’s power again, he would have little chance of winning. But there was one thing he must do, and he recognised that fact. He had to see Paula’s father and convince him of the terrible dangers the whole county was running.

  He had proof now, in Paula herself. When she explained what the sheriff had done it would be obvious to anyone that Sheriff Milton was not carrying out his duties to the letter of the law. Also in Lassiter’s favour was the fact that the sheriff had called in his posses. There would be little danger of running into a bunch of men intent upon having the price on his head.

  “I’m worried, Dane,” Paula said anxiously. “We’re riding to town, and if the sheriff has stopped along the way we’ll surely run into him.”

  “I hope we do,” he retorted grimly. “The sooner I put a bullet through Milton the better.”