Childe nodded. Leaning back in his chair, he put his feet on the desk. He studied Tack Gentry thoughtfully. “You know, you’ll be next. They won’t stand for you messing around. I think you already have them worried.”
Tack explained about the man following him, and then handed the note to Childe. The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm, sounds like they had some reason to soft-pedal the whole thing for a while. Maybe it’s an idea for us. Maybe somebody is coming down here to look around, or maybe somebody has grown suspicious.”
Tack looked at Childe thoughtfully. “What’s your position in all this?”
The tall man shrugged, and then laughed lightly. “I’ve no stake in it, Gentry. I didn’t know London or your uncle John, either. But I heard rumors, and I didn’t like the attitude of the local bosses, Hardin and Olney. I’m just a burr under the saddle with which they ride this community, no more. It amuses me to needle them, and they are afraid of me.”
“Got any clients?”
“Clients?” Anson Childe chuckled. “Not a one. Not likely to have any, either. In a country so throttled by one man as this is, there isn’t any litigation. Nobody can win against him, and they are too busy hating Hardin to want to have trouble with each other.”
“Well, then,” Tack said, “you’ve got a client now. Go down to Austin. Demand an investigation. Lay the facts on the table for them. Maybe you can’t do any good, but at least you can stir up a lot of trouble. The main thing will be to get people talking. They evidently want quiet, so we’ll give them noise. Find out all you can. Get some detectives started on Hardin’s trail. Find out who they are, who they were, and where they came from.”
Childe sat up. “I’d like it,” he said ruefully, “but I don’t have that kind of money.” He gestured at the room. “I’m behind on my rent here. Red owns the building, so he lets me stay.”
Tack grinned and unbuttoned his shirt, drawing out a money belt. “I sold some cattle up north.” He counted out $1,000. “Take that. Spend all or any part of it, but create a smell down there. Tell everybody about the situation here.”
Childe got up, his face flushed with enthusiasm. “Man, nothing could please me more. I’ll make it hot for them. I’ll....” He went into a fit of coughing, and Tack watched him gravely. Finally Childe straightened. “You’re putting your trust in a sick man, Gentry.”
“I’m putting my trust in a fighter,” Tack said dryly. “You’ll do.” He hesitated briefly. “Also, check the title on this land.”
They shook hands silently, and Tack went to the door. Softly he opened it and stepped out into the cool night. Well, for better or worse the battle was opened now for the next step. He came down off the wooden stairs, and then walked to the street. There was no one it sight. Tack Gentry crossed the street and pushed through the swinging doors of the Longhorn.
The saloon and dance hall was crowded. A few familiar faces, but they were sullen faces, lined and hard. The faces of bitter men, defeated, but not whipped. The others were new faces, the hard, tough faces of gun hands, the weather-beaten cowpunchers who had come in to take the new jobs. He pushed his way to the bar.
There were three bartenders now, and it wasn’t until he ordered that the squat, fat man glanced down the bar and saw him. His jaw hardened and he spoke to the bartender who was getting a bottle to pour Gentry’s rye.
The bartender, a lean, sallow-faced man, strolled back to him. “We’re not servin’ you,” he said. “I got my orders.”
Tack reached across the bar, his hand shooting out so fast the bartender had no chance to withdraw. Catching the man by his stiff collar, two fingers inside the collar and their knuckles jammed hard into the man’s Adam’s apple, he jerked him to the bar.
“Pour!” he said.
The man tried to speak, but Tack gripped harder and shoved back on the knuckles. Weakly, desperately, his face turning blue, the man poured. He slopped out twice what he got in the glass, but he poured. Then Tack shoved hard and the man brought up violently against the backbar.
Tack lifted his glass with his left hand, his eyes sweeping the crowd, all of whom had drawn back slightly. “To honest ranchers!” he said loudly and clearly and downed his drink.
A big, hard-faced man shoved through the crowd. “Maybe you’re meanin’ some of us ain’t honest?” he suggested.
“That’s right!” Tack Gentry let his voice ring out in the room, and he heard the rattle of chips cease, and the shuffling of feet died away. The crowd was listening. “That’s exactly right! There were honest men here, but they were murdered or crippled. My uncle John Gentry was murdered. They tried to make it look like a fair and square killin’...they stuck a gun in his hand!”
“That’s right!” A man broke in. “He had a gun! I seen it!”
Tack’s eyes shifted. “What hand was it in?”
“His right hand!” the man stated positively, belligerently. “I seen it!”
“Thank you, pardner,” Tack said politely. “The gun was in John Gentry’s right hand...and John Gentry’s right hand had been paralyzed ever since Shiloh!”
“Huh?” The man who had seen the gun stepped back, his face whitening a little.
Somebody back in the crowd shouted out: “That’s right! You’re durn’ tootin’ that’s right! Never could use a rope ’count of it!”
Tack looked around at the crowd, and his eyes halted on the big man. He was going to break the power of Hardin, Olney, and Soderman, and he was going to start right here.
“There’s goin’ to be an investigation,” he said loudly, “and it’ll begin down in Austin. Any of you fellers bought property from Hardin, or Olney better get your money back.”
“You’re talkin’ a lot!” The big man thrust toward him, his wide, heavy shoulders looking broad enough for two men. “You said some of us were thieves!”
“Thieves and murderers,” Tack added. “If you’re one of the worms that crawl in Hardin’s tracks, that goes for you!”
The big man lunged.
“Get him, Starr!” somebody shouted loudly.
Tack Gentry suddenly felt a fierce surge of pure animal joy. He stepped back, and then stepped in suddenly, and his right swung, low and hard. It caught Starr as he was coming in, caught him in the pit of the stomach. He grunted and stopped dead in his tracks, but Tack set himself and swung wickedly with both hands. His left smashed into Starr’s mouth, and his right split a cut over his cheek bone. Starr staggered and fell back into the crowd. He came out of the crowd, shook his head, and charged like a bull.
Tack weaved inside of the swinging fists and impaled the bigger man on a straight, hard left hand. Then he crossed a wicked right to the cut cheek, and gore cascaded down the man’s face. Tack stepped in, smashing both hands to the man’s body, and then, as Starr stabbed a thumb at his eye, Tack jerked his head aside and butted Starr in the face.
His nose broken, his cheek laid open to the bone, Starr staggered back, and Tack Gentry walked in, swinging with both hands. This was the beginning. This man worked for Hardin and he was going to be an example. When he left this room, Starr’s face was going to be a sample of the crashing of Van Hardin’s power. With left and right he cut and slashed at the big man’s face, and Starr, overwhelmed by the attack, helpless after that first wicked body blow, crumpled under those smashing fists. He hit the floor suddenly and lay there, moaning softly.
A man shoved through the crowd, and then stopped. It was Van Hardin. He looked down at the man on the floor, then his eyes, dark with hate, lifted to meet Tack Gentry’s eyes.
“Lookin’ for trouble, are you?” he said.
“Only catchin’ up with some that started while I was gone, Van,” Tack said. He felt good. He was on the balls of his feet and ready. He had liked the jarring of blows, liked the feeling of combat. He was ready. “You should have made sure I was dead, Hardin, before you tried to steal propert
y from a kindly old man.”
“Nothing was stolen,” Van Hardin said evenly, calmly. “We took only what was ours, and in a strictly legal manner.”
“There will be an investigation,” Gentry replied bluntly, “from Austin. Then we’ll thrash the whole thing out.”
Hardin’s eyes sharpened and he was suddenly wary. “An investigation? What makes you think so?”
Tack was aware that Hardin was worried. “Because I’m startin’ it. I’m askin’ for it, and I’ll get it. There was a lot you didn’t know about that land you stole, Hardin. You were like most crooks. You could only see your side of the question and it looked very simple and easy, but there’s always the thing you overlook, and you overlooked somethin’.”
The doors swung wide and Olney pushed into the room. He stopped, glancing from Hardin to Gentry. “What goes on here?” he demanded.
“Gentry is accusin’ us of bein’ thieves,” Hardin said carelessly.
Olney turned and faced Tack. “He’s in no position to accuse anybody of anything,” he said. “I’m arrestin’ him for murder!”
There was a stir in the room, and Tack Gentry felt the sudden sickness of fear. “Murder? Are you crazy?” he demanded.
“I’m not, but you may he,” the sheriff said. “I’ve just come from the office of Anson Childe. He’s been murdered. You were his last visitor. You were observed sneaking into his place by the back stairs. You were observed sneaking out of it. I’m arresting you for murder.”
The room was suddenly still, and Tack Gentry felt the rise of hostility toward him. Many men had admired the courage of Anson Childe; many men had been helped by him. Frightened themselves, they had enjoyed his flouting of Hardin and Olney. Now he was dead, murdered.
“Childe was my friend,” Tack protested. “He was goin’ to Austin for me.”
Hardin laughed sarcastically. “You mean he knew you had no case and refused to go, and in a fit of rage you killed him. You shot him.”
“You’ll have to come with me,” Olney said grimly. “You’ll get a fair trial.”
Silently Tack looked at him. Swiftly thoughts raced through his mind. There was no chance for escape. The crowd was too thick, and he had no idea if there was a horse out front, although there no doubt was, but his own horse was in the livery stable. Olney relieved him of his gun belt and they started toward the door. Starr, leaning against the doorpost, his face raw as chewed beef, glared at him evilly.
“I’ll be seein’ you,” he said softly. “Soon.”
Soderman and Hardin had fallen in around him, and behind them were two of Hardin’s roughs.
The jail was small, just four cells and an outer office. The door of one of the cells was opened and he was shoved inside. Hardin grinned at him. “This should settle the matter for Austin,” he said. “Childe had friends down there.”
Anson Childe murdered! Tack Gentry, numbed by the blow, stared at the stone wall. He had counted on Childe, counted on his stirring up an investigation. Once an investigation was started, he possessed two aces in the hole he could use to defeat Hardin in court, but it demanded a court not controlled by Hardin. With Childe’s death he had no friends on the outside. Betty had barely spoken to him when they met, and, if she was going to work for Hardin in his dance hall, she must have changed much. Bill London was a cripple and unable to get around. Red Furness, for all his friendship, wouldn’t come out in the open. Tack had no illusions about the murder. By the time the case came to trial, they would have found ample evidence. They had his guns and they could fire two or three shots from them, whatever had been used on Childe. It would be a simple thing to frame him. Hardin would have no trouble in finding witnesses.
He was standing, staring out the small window, its lower sill just on the level of his eyes, when he heard a distant rumble of thunder and a jagged streak of lightning brightened the sky, followed by more thunder. The rains came slowly, softly, and then in steadily increasing volume. The jail was still and empty. Sounds of music and occasional shouts sounded from the Longhorn, then the roar of rain drowned them out. He threw himself down on the cot in the corner of the room and, lulled by the falling rain, was soon asleep.
* * * * *
A long time later, he awakened. The rain was still falling, but above it was another sound. Listening, he suddenly realized what it was. The dry wash behind the town was running, probably bank full. Lying there in the darkness, he became aware of still another sound, of the nearer rushing of water. Lifting his head, he listened. Then he got to his feet and crossed the small cell.
Water was running under the corner of the jail. There had been a good deal of rain lately, and he had noted that the barrel at the corner of the jail had been full. It was overflowing, and the water had evidently washed under the corner of the building.
He walked back and sat down on the bed, and, as he listened to the water, an idea came to him suddenly. Tack got up and went to the corner of the cell. Striking a match, he studied the wall and floor. Both were damp. He stamped on the stone flags of the floor, but they were solid. He kicked at the wall. It was also solid.
How thick were those walls? Judging by what he remembered of the door, the walls were all of eight inches thick, but how about the floor? Kneeling on the floor, he struck another match, studying the mortar around the corner flagstone.
Then he felt in his pockets. There was nothing there he could use to dig that mortar. His pocket knife, his Bowie knife, his keys—all were gone. Suddenly he had an inspiration. Slipping off his wide leather belt, he began to dig at the mortar with the edge of his heavy brass belt buckle.
The mortar was damp, but he worked steadily. His hands slipped on the sweaty buckle and he skinned his fingers and knuckles on the rough stone floor, yet he persevered, scraping, scratching, digging out tiny fragments of mortar. From time to time he straightened up and stamped on the stone. It was solid as Gibraltar.
Five hours he scraped and scratched, digging until his belt buckle was no longer of use. He had scraped out almost two inches of mortar. Sweeping up the scattered grains of mortar, and digging some of the mud off his boots, he filled in the cracks as best he could. Then he walked to his bunk and sprawled out and was instantly asleep.
III
Early in the morning, he heard someone stirring around outside. Then Olney walked back to his cell and looked in at him. Starr followed in a few minutes, carrying a plate of food and a pot of coffee. His face was badly bruised and swollen, and his eyes were hot with hate. He put the food down, and then walked away. Olney loitered.
“Gentry,” he said suddenly, “I hate to see a good hand in this spot.”
Tack looked up. “I’ll bet you do,” he said sarcastically.
“No use takin’ that attitude,” Olney protested, “after all, you made trouble for us. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? You were in the clear, you had a few dollars apparently, and you could do all right. Hardin took possession of those ranches legally. He can hold ’em, too.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, I mean it. He can. Why don’t you drop the whole thing?”
“Drop it?” Tack laughed. “How can I drop it? I’m in jail for murder now, and you know as well as I do I never killed Anson Childe. This trial will smoke the whole story out of its hole. I mean to see that it does.”
Olney winced, and Tack could see he had touched a tender spot. That was what they were afraid of. They had him now, but they didn’t want him. They wanted nothing so much as to be completely rid of him.
“Only make trouble for folks,” Olney protested. “You won’t get nowhere. You can bet that, if you go to trial, we’ll have all the evidence we need.”
“Sure. I know I’ll be framed.”
“What can you expect?” Olney shrugged. “You’re askin’ for it. Why don’t you play smart? If you’d leave the country, we could sort of arrange maybe to
turn you loose.”
Tack looked up at him. “You mean that?” Like blazes, he told himself. I can see you turnin’ me loose! And when I walked out, you’d have somebody there to smoke me down, shot escaping jail. Yeah, I know. “If I thought you’d let me go....” He hesitated, angling to get Olney’s reaction.
The sheriff put his head close to the bars. “You know me, Tack,” he whispered. “I don’t want to see you stick your head in a noose. Sure, you spoke out of turn, and you tried to scare up trouble for us, but if you’d leave, I think I could arrange it.”
“Just give me the chance,” Tack assured him. “Once I get out of here, I’ll really start movin’.” And that’s no lie, he added to himself.
Olney went away, and the morning dragged slowly. They would let him go. He was praying now they would wait until the next day. Yet even if they did permit him to escape, even if they did not have him shot as he was leaving, what could he do? Childe, his best means of assistance, was dead. At every turn he was stopped. They had the law, and they had the guns.
His talk the night before would have implanted doubts. His whipping of Starr would have pleased many, and some of them would realize that his arrest for the murder of Childe was a frame. Yet none of these people would do anything about it without leadership. None of them wanted his own neck in a noose.
Olney dropped in later and leaned close to the bars. “I’ll have something arranged by tomorrow,” he said.
Tack lay back on the bunk and fell asleep. All day the rain had continued without interruption except for a few minutes at a time. The hills would be soggy now, the trails bad. He could hear the wash running strongly, running like a river not thirty yards behind the jail.
Darkness fell, and he ate again, and then returned to his bunk. With a good lawyer and a fair judge he could beat them in court. He had an ace in the hole that would help, and another that might do the job.
He waited until the jail was silent and he could hear the usual sounds from the Longhorn. Then he got up and walked over to the corner. All day water had been running under the corner of the jail and must have excavated a fair-size hole by now. Tack knelt down and took from his pocket the fork he had secreted after his meal.
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