Hardcase

by Short, Luke;

  “What?” Ernie asked belligerently.

  “If you don’t love a tin badge more’n you hate murder.”

  Ernie felt himself getting mad, but when he looked at Dave Coyle, at that quiet alert face, not jeering, he paused. And slowly a feeling of shame came over him. Dave Coyle had touched him where it hurt. He had told what seemed to be the truth, but it was not the truth. To prove that to himself Ernie only had to think of Lily Sholto. He’d sell his badge for a drink if he could get Sholto’s killer.

  He said quietly, “I’m going to prove you a liar.”

  “You’ll help me? Even if it means breakin’ the law?”

  Ernie’s honest face was sober now. “I will. I’ll do anything short of murder.”

  “You’re passin’ up seven thousands dollars’ reward.”

  “I ain’t a bounty hunter,” Ernie said grimly. “You prove to me you’re more’n a cheap outlaw, and I’ll forget that.”

  They didn’t shake hands on it because they didn’t need to. Dave’s doubt of Ernie was far more binding than a mere handshake, and Ernie’s skepticism of Dave was equally binding. Their pride had done that.

  Ernie put down his gun on the table as a token of his honesty, tilted his chair back, and said, “Since we’re partners, let’s have it. What do you aim to do first?”

  Dave leaned back against the wall, his forehead creased in a scowl. “See if I figure right, Ernie. The way I look at it, here’s the way it stands. Wallace—and whoever’s behind him—don’t have to make another move. They’re set. All they got to do is let the law take care of McFee. That right?”

  Ernie nodded.

  “Then it’s up to us to make ’em move.”

  Ernie grunted. “How?”

  “Steal the forged deed.”

  Ernie’s head yanked up, and his tired eyes opened wide. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he murmured, “That’ll make ’em move, all right. But how—” His voice died. He was looking at Dave.

  Dave’s head had slowly turned toward the window, as if he were listening. There was a faint, unnoticeable rustling of brush outside the window, and then Dave exploded. His hand had been near Ernie’s hat. He picked it up, and in one fluid motion he threw it at the lamp, at the same time rolling off the cot onto the floor.

  The lamp winked out; he hit the floor, and on the heel of his fall came the blasting, deafening roar of a shotgun through the window, then a swift pounding of feet toward the alley.

  Even as the buckshot was still rolling about the room, the plaster above the bed still sifting down, Dave had come over to Ernie, who had reared out of his chair.

  “You hurt, Ernie?”

  “N-no.”

  “Listen. Make it quick. Lead that gang in the cell block outside before they come in here! Find out which of those four men is in town. Meet me at the feed stable!”

  There was the pounding of feet behind the door, and Dave dodged against the wall. Ernie yanked the door open and faced the excited guards.

  “Outside!” Ernie bawled. “Somebody took a greener to me! Split up and head for the alley!”

  He led the way, pounding out of the sheriff’s office. The five guards beat their way back between the buildings. Dave followed on their heels and then walked swiftly and unconcernedly down the street toward the darkened feed stable.

  Back in the alley both groups met, and then Ernie began to swear blisteringly. It was as black as the bottom of a well, and the bushwhacker was gone.

  “What happened, Ernie?” one man asked.

  “Happened?” Ernie raged. “Why, I was lyin’ on the cot, too damn tired to go to bed. I heard somethin’ outside, reared up, saw somethin’ move behind them bars, threw my hat at the lamp, and ducked. Then this greener cut loose through the window!”

  “Dave Coyle,” one of the guards said bitterly. “That sounds like him.”

  Ernie was about to protest, and then he thought he’d better start allaying suspicions right now. “It’s likely,” he growled. “That damn little whelp!”

  He judged he had given Dave enough time to get out now, so after futilely beating the alley for five minutes he ordered the guards back to the cell block. What few people were still up were collected in front of the jail, but he ordered them home. Beal, he thought, would be down soon, and he didn’t want to listen to him any more. He remembered what Dave had told him, so he dragged his weary bones out in the street again.

  At the hotel he found that Senator Maitland was registered. He asked if Lacey Thornton was in town, and Bitterman said he wasn’t here. Beal was here, of course, and so was he, the fourth man.

  But Ernie didn’t want to pass up any chances. He started the rounds of the three saloons still open, idly inquiring if Lacey Thornton was upstairs anywhere. Two of them said no.

  At King’s Keno Parlor the first sight that met his eyes was Wallace standing at the bar drinking with a handsome frock-coated man who wore buckskin gloves. With a new suspicion simmering inside him, Ernie walked up to the bar and said bluntly, “I’m gettin’ an alibi from everybody in town, Wallace. Where was you when that greener went off?”

  Wallace grinned and looked at the barkeep. “Where was I, Tim?”

  “Right here,” Tim King said. “Him and his friend, both.”

  “Gimme a drink,” Ernie said in disgust.

  Wallace’s companion came over on Ernie’s other side. “Has it occurred to you that Dave Coyle might be the man you’re lookin’ for?” he asked pleasantly.

  Ernie’s face showed only a weary disinterest. “Hell, yes, it’s occurred to me. I suppose it was.”

  He let it ride that way, wondering who the man was, and drank his drink. When he was finished Wallace said, “Well, Ernie, I’m movin’ in on the Bib M tomorrow. You might’s well tell Beal.”

  “You are?” Ernie asked, surprise in his voice.

  “I’ve got the legal right,” Wallace said calmly. “I’ve waited two weeks longer than the deed called for. McFee’s case against me is finished, I think, since he tried to kill my witness and will hang for it. Any reason I have to wait?”

  “Why—don’t reckon,” Ernie admitted.

  “Well, I want to make it legal. Tell Beal for me. You can tell Miss McFee too.”

  “Sure.” Ernie said good night, went back to the gambling tables and heard other alibis, and then went out, heading for the feed stable. The news from Wallace wasn’t so good. He wondered what Dave would say to that.

  He came up the alley to the corral behind the feed barn and was walking toward the driveway when a voice said beside him, “Well?”

  It was Dave. Ernie said, “Beal’s in town; Maitland’s at the hotel; I’m in town—and Wallace was talking with a stranger when it happened.”

  “What stranger?”

  “Good-lookin’, frock coat, yaller gloves, very fancy. Told me you likely did it.”

  That would be Will Usher, Dave thought. So Will had thrown in with Wallace now, had he? Dave smiled faintly in the dark. Leave it to Will to smell money and rub elbows with it.

  Ernie said wearily, “That mean anything to you? Three of the four was here.”

  “I dunno,” Dave said.

  “Then does this mean anything to you?” Ernie asked gloomily. “Wallace is movin’ into the Bib M tomorrow.”

  For a moment there was silence. Ernie heard what sounded to him like the soft, noiseless laugh of his companion.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “Why, nothin’,” Dave said. “Only that deed is as good as stole right now. Listen.” And he began to talk, and Ernie listened—listened long and carefully—and was dumfounded at what he heard.

  XVIII

  Sheriff Beal came into the office next morning brisk and beaming, his cherub’s face still pink from his morning’s shave. He found Ernie in the swivel chair, feet cocked on the desk, hands behind his head.

  “Well, well,” Beal said briskly. “They tell me you were shot at last night, Ernie.”
r />   “Yeah,” Ernie said sourly. “It ain’t any fun. Where was you?”

  “In bed.”

  “So you don’t come down to see about it unless I’m dead, eh?”

  Beal looked carefully at him. “Boy, you got up on the wrong side of the bed this mornin’.”

  “Sure I did—and stepped right into a pound of buckshot and plaster,” Ernie said sourly. He had made no move to get out of Beal’s chair, in itself a sign of revolt. Beal sensed something and leaned on the desk.

  “What’s the matter with you, Ernie?”

  “I’m fed up,” Ernie said grimly. “I been chasin’ that damn Coyle from hell to breakfast, and all I got out of it was dust in my eyes. I get laughed at and cussed at, just because I don’t believe fairy stories about who killed Sholto. Then I git shot at.” He looked at Beal. “And you ask me what’s the matter. Ain’t it enough?”

  Beal laughed and said, “Boy, our job’s done. In a week McFee’s trial will be over, and we’ll be rid of this mess.”

  Ernie grunted sourly. “Wallace says to tell you he’s movin’ on the Bib M today.”

  Beal frowned a little, and Ernie went on, still sourly, “Says it’s legal enough, so he’s movin’ in.”

  “Well, I guess it is,” Beal said, nodding. Beal was in a cheerful mood that nothing could destroy this morning, but Ernie was determined.

  He said, “I just been down to get Sholto’s stuff from the coroner. Lookit what I found.” He pulled out a drawer. In the bottom of it were some coins, some dirty matches, a stockman’s knife, a sack of tobacco, and a worn and dog-eared letter.

  Beal looked at them without interest and said, “We’ll give them to Wallace.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Ernie said slowly.

  Something in his voice made Beal look at him. “Why not?”

  Ernie picked up the envelope, held it in his hand, and said, “Read what’s inside.”

  Beal did. It was a note on a dirty piece of paper. It said, “I’m all right. I’ll see you soon. (Signed) Jim. Beal read it and said, “He was likely goin’ to send it to his wife before McFee killed him.”

  Ernie grunted. “Don’t you notice anything funny?”

  Beal looked at the letter again, turned it over, studied it, then said, “Why, no.”

  Ernie said with seeming irrelevance, “Remember when you and me rode out to the Three Rivers to take a look at Wallace’s deed that McFee give him?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Remember Sholto’s signature?”

  “Sure. It was on the deed as a witness.”

  Ernie pulled his feet down, stretched, yawned, cuffed his hat to the back of his head, then said casually, “There was a signature on the deed all right. It said ‘Jim Sholto.’ But it wasn’t that writin’.”

  Beal came to his feet, his good humor suddenly evaporated. Ernie concluded that his little job of writing the note last night and dirtying it and sleeping on it made it look convincing enough.

  Beal suddenly groaned softly and stared at Ernie. “You sure?”

  “You saw the deed,” Ernie said. “Remember, that writin’ of Sholto’s was round and kind of shaky-like, like he was drawin’ a picture? Well, this ain’t like that.”

  “But my God!” Beal burst out. “Do you realize what this means?”

  “Sure I do,” Ernie said. “It means Wallace has got to prove that the signature on his deed is really Sholto’s.”

  “But—but dammit, he’s movin’ today! He’ll fight! Why—we’ll be in one hell of a mess, twice the mess we’ve been in.” Beal’s face was a picture of panic and dismay. He groaned again and said, “What’ll we do?”

  Ernie shrugged. “You got me,” he said, immediately cheerful.

  “Look,” Beal said. “I got to be here today when McFee’s arraigned. You go out and take a look at that deed.”

  “Nothin’ doin’,” Ernie said flatly.

  Beal’s face hardened. “You want to keep your job, Ernie?”

  “Not that bad,” Ernie said cheerfully. “Hell, I ain’t goin’ to start another damn war in this county. I’ll quit first. He grinned at Beal. “Then where’ll you be, Harve? You start gettin’ tough with Wallace and you won’t be able to hire a deputy. No man wants to commit suicide.”

  Beal only glared at him. Ernie scratched his head and went on, “I got a way, I think. I been studyin’ on it, and I can’t see what’s wrong with it. It wouldn’t make Wallace sore, and you could still find out if Sholto’s signature is a phony.”

  “How?”

  “Send a man out with word to Wallace to bring the deed with him when he moves in to the Bib M today. Tell him it’s just protection for the sheriff’s office. He takes possession, and you want to be sure it’s legal. Tell him you want a look at it, just to protect yourself.”

  “What if it ain’t legal?”

  Ernie spread his hands, palms out, and said, “Turn it over to the U.S. commissioner’s office and let them sweat.”

  Beal thought a moment and said, “Yeah, that’d be all right. We could look at it without makin’ him suspicious.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll send a man,” Beal said.

  The office door opened just then, and a mild-looking townsman walked in. After the greetings he said, “Harve, someone busted in the office last night.”

  Beal frowned. “What would anybody want in the county recorder’s office? Is anything missin’?”

  “Not that I can find. Books is all in order. Stamps are all there. But still the lock was busted.”

  Beal said to Ernie, “Go over and take a look, Ernie.”

  Ernie hoisted himself to his feet and followed the man out. The county of Yellow Jacket did not have a courthouse. Its business offices were in the front of the second story of Badey’s store. The courtroom was in the rear. Both were approached by a wooden stairs on the outside of the store. Ernie followed the county clerk up to the top of the steps, investigated the lock, and scratched his head. “It’s busted all right. But since nothin’s gone, what’s the difference?”

  The clerk laughed. “I guess there isn’t any.”

  “I’ll get a new lock,” Ernie said. He went down the stairs, and this time there was a smile on his face. Dave had made a neat enough job of breaking in, and he hadn’t left a trace of what he was after. Considering that Sheriff Beal had also fallen for the deed fraud and had ordered Wallace to have the deed at the Bib M that afternoon, Ernie concluded that he and Dave made a good pair.

  But he wished, almost wistfully, that his conscience didn’t hurt him the little it did. But when he remembered last night, the deafening blast from the shotgun, his conscience evaporated.

  The only thing left was speculation as to who shot through the window. Beal, Maitland, Lacey Thornton—or somebody Wallace sent?

  He didn’t know, and he wished savagely that he did, for whoever it was knew that he’d been talking with Dave.

  When Dave saw the first pennant of smoke rise from the chimney of the Bib M after dawn he waited long enough to give Lily Sholto time to dress and then knocked at the kitchen door.

  Lily answered and let him in. She even smiled a little as she shut the door behind her.

  Dave said quietly, “It was pretty lonely last night, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve got over it, Dave,” Lilly said. “I thought all last night about it, and I know something now. Jim was lucky to be killed.”

  Dave didn’t say anything, and Lily went on, “I suppose you guessed that Wallace had something on Jim.”

  “I figured he did.”

  “Well, it was murder,” Lily said. “Plain, inexcusable murder. Jim killed a man once, a good man, when he was mad. Wallace saw him do it. He held that over Jim for three years and brought Jim here from Texas when he came. Every waking hour of Jim’s life he thought of that murder. It was never away from him. It rode him and sucked the very life out of him. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t.” She shrugged. “Don’t you think he’s better off n
ow?”

  Dave nodded again, admiring this girl’s sense.

  Lily shuddered a little, as if shaking off the memory. “That’s why I’m not very sad about it. I’ll miss him, but he’s through with all that—through with it.” She smiled again and said. “You’ll want breakfast.”

  “I could use some,” Dave said. “I’m goin’ to look through the house.”

  He disappeared in the front part of the house, and Lily set about getting breakfast. She liked Dave Coyle. Carol McFee could hate him and like him by turns, but there was none of that uncertainty in Lily. For Dave Coyle, outlaw or no outlaw, was the only man she could remember who had tried to help Jim, to be a friend to him. It was Dave Coyle who had taken her from Wallace’s place, where every drunken puncher annoyed her, where Wallace taunted her daily, where her life had been lived in constant fear that Wallace, when he couldn’t use Sholto, would toss him to the wolves without a quiver of conscience. He had tried to help them. That alone was a passport to Lily’s liking.

  When breakfast was ready Dave appeared and sat down.

  He said, “Ernie said the funeral is today.”

  Lily nodded, a look of puzzlement in her face. “Isn’t Ernie See the deputy sheriff?”

  Dave grinned faintly. “Why am I talkin’ with him? Well, there’s goin’ to be a lot of things you won’t understand, Lily. But don’t wonder out loud. You’ll know soon.”

  “Are you—going to get the man that killed Jim?”

  Dave’s gray eyes looked steadily at her. “I am,” he said.

  “Then don’t worry about me,” Lily said. “I won’t ask questions.”

  Dave pointed to the door to the front part of the house. “When I walk through that door,” he said, “you forget I’ve been here. Don’t think about me. Don’t look for me. Do everything like you usually do. Wallace is movin’ in today. Miss McFee will tell you when she comes out. I reckon you’ll move some furniture and such. Don’t act nervous and don’t look for me. Forget me.”

  “Then you’ll be in the house?”

  Dave nodded and went on eating. Presently Lily said quietly, “Dave.”