by J. T. Edson
Scobie took the decision out of Skerrit’s hands in no uncertain way. Only a shade slower than the other man, his Remington left the holster even as Skerrit’s revolver began to swing into line. Without the dog’s intervention Scobie would have died, but the respite, brief though it was, gave him his chance. Not wishing to shoot Skerrit, for he knew the terrible effect of the .50 caliber solid lead bullet he used had upon living tissue, Scobie did not cock the hammer and squeeze the hair-trigger. Instead he whipped the pistol upwards in a semicircular swing that drove the barrel under the other’s jaw, gliding in a step to come within touching distance. The Remington 1871 Army single-shot pistol weighed two pounds, three ounces and lacked any delicate cylinder which might be damaged on impact, so it made a mighty effective club at close range.
Caught beneath the jaw by the Remington’s eight-inch barrel, Skerrit’s head snapped back. He pitched to one side, the Smith & Wesson clattering from a limp hand, crashing to the floor and lying still.
‘Easy all!’ warned Scobie as one of the bouncers started to reach for a gun.
Although the Remington’s bore was only half an inch across, it looked a whole heap larger when one saw it – as the bouncer did – lined on his favorite belly. Even as he spoke, Scobie swung the pistol to cover the bouncer and end any further move on that worthy’s part. Waist high, yet lined as true as if held in a fancy Eastern target-shooter’s stance, the menace of the Remington’s yawning muzzle posed a threat only a fool would ignore.
Nor did the second bouncer show any greater initiative. He might have taken a chance but the Rottweiler turned its attention his way and brought any moves contemplated to a halt before they began.
‘Anybody else going to object to me leaving?’ asked Scobie, twirling the pistol away.
‘I wouldn’t’ve minded if you’d never come in,’ Zimmerman replied.
‘That’s no way to get rich, turning aside good customers,’ grinned Scobie.
Turning on his heel, Scobie walked from the room. As he watched the big man’s departing back, Zimmerman could feel the weight of a Remington Double Derringer sagging his jacket pocket. If he experienced any desire to draw and use the weapon, he managed to keep it in control. Ethics did not stay his hand, no code of honor prevented him from shooting Scobie in the back. Rather it was the menace of the two dogs.
Although their master had left the room, Rottweiler and Bluetick remained standing and facing Zimmerman and the bouncers. A whistle sounded in the street and the dogs turned to lope through the batwing doors. Growling a curse, the first bouncer completed drawing his gun.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ the Wells Fargo agent warned. ‘You can bet all you own that Scobie Dale’s stood where he can draw a bead on you. Happen you even tried to shoot that hound dog man’s dog, you’d be dead afore you squeezed the trigger!’
Three – So You’re Working for Him
Only for a few seconds did the silence continue after the departure of Scobie Dale and the dogs. Then talk welled up as the tension snapped. While the situation did not develop as some of the crowd might have liked to see it, most of them felt they had seen enough to make conversation upon.
Being a shrewd businessman, with a top-grade working knowledge of the saloonkeeper’s trade, Zimmerman lost some of his anger at Scobie Dale almost as soon as the batwing doors ceased swinging from the dogs’ departure. Such an incident would have a salutary effect on the customers, bringing about a desire for discussion. In its turn, that would induce thirst and the saloon carried cures for dry throats behind its bar. What had looked like being a quiet evening now showed ever sign of livening up, to Zimmerman’s profit.
A moan from the sprawled-out Skerrit brought Zimmerman’s eyes to him. Glancing at the bouncers, Zimmerman told them to take Skerrit into his private office. Common humanity did not dictate the order, such an emotion being foreign to the saloonkeeper’s make-up. Knowing how Skerrit earned his living, Zimmerman wanted to learn, if possible, what brought the man to Braddock. A top-grade professional killer like Skerrit mostly possessed important connections, men in high places on both sides of the law, who would expect that he received every consideration.
Taking hold of Skerrit by the arms, the two bouncers raised him from the sawdust-coated floor. They showed a greater gentleness than usual when handling a customer in such a condition. Any man who received the hospitality of their employer’s private office could not be treated in the manner of a drunk or a rowdy clubbed down by one of their good right arms.
After attending to Skerrit’s well-being, Zimmerman looked around the room. He aimed to teach that short runt of a new girl a lesson she would never forget, and could claim to be something of an expert on doing that. However, she did not appear to be present.
‘Where’d Pauline go?’ he growled to one of the other girls who passed on her way to the bar.
‘I don’t know, Mr. Zimmerman.’
Nor did anybody else. Most of the crowd had been so completely absorbed in watching the drama being played before the main doors and failed to take any notice of the main bone of contention. So Pauline’s departure went unnoticed; or if any of her fellow workers saw her leave, they withheld the fact. Zimmerman’s reputation as an employer was about as low as a reasonably good saloonkeeper’s might be and not of a kind to induce loyalty among his employees.
‘Tell her I want to see her as soon as she comes back,’ he growled and followed the Skerrit-loaded bouncers into the private office.
Telling the bouncers that he did not want to be disturbed, Zimmerman dismissed them. Then he turned towards the sprawled-out shape on his best and most comfortable armchair. Maybe he ought to take his chance and search Skerrit before the man recovered. Before Zimmerman could form any opinion on the propriety of such a move, Skerrit started to groan a way back to recovery. A knock at the door caused Zimmerman to turn. Jerking open the door, he glared out at the bouncer who stood on the other side.
‘Figured Skerrit’d want his gun,’ the man said, holding out the Smith & Wesson before his employer could demand to be told why he disobeyed orders.
Taking the revolver, Zimmerman grunted what might have been thanks and closed the door again. By the time he turned, all chances of searching an unconscious man had gone. Holding his jaw and sitting crumpled in the chair, Skerrit shook his head from side to side and groaned. Zimmerman went to his desk, unlocked and opened the small cupboard at the right side and took out a bottle of whiskey which normally only made an appearance when he received a visit by somebody of importance. Pouring out a liberal drink, he returned and offered it to the groaning man. Skerrit took the glass, shuddered and emptied its contents down his throat. For a time the killer sat with his head in his hands, then he looked up.
‘That come from the right bottle,’ he said, in a slurred voice.
‘Will you have another, Mr. Skerrit?’
‘I’ve never been known to refuse.’
Although not the answer he hoped to hear, Zimmerman poured out a second drink of less liberal proportions. He saw Skerrit eyeing the glass and topped it up reluctantly.
‘Smoke’d go well,’ Skerrit hinted after downing the second drink. ‘Only not those rolled cow-droppings you sell behind the bar.’
‘I’ve a box of real good cigars,’ replied Zimmerman reluctantly, hoping he would see a return for the trouble he took.
‘Trot ’em out.’
With one of Zimmerman’s expensive cigars smoking in his mouth, Skerrit sank back in the chair. The saloonkeeper found his guest’s unwinking stare disconcerting and decided to make a move.
‘Dale left, Mr. Skerrit,’ he said. ‘With those dogs backing him, we—’
‘Where’s the gal?’ interrupted Skerrit.
‘I – I’m not sure. She wasn’t in the barroom when we carried you in here.’
‘Then where’d she go?’
‘Out back, maybe,’ suggested Zimmerman. ‘But I’ve got other girls just as good and maybe better than that runt.’
‘I want her,’ stated Skerrit flatly. ‘Where else’d she be, happen she isn’t in the john?’
‘I wouldn’t know. She’s only been here a week or so and this town don’t take any girl who works for me as a friend.’
‘Does she live in?’ growled Skerrit, massaging his throbbing jaw. ‘Let me have another drink.’
Generosity had never been one of Zimmerman’s good points and he disliked a further dissipation of his stock. He also possessed a broad streak of caution and had no intention of crossing so dangerous a man as this professional killer. Pouring out another drink, he handed it over and watched it disappear down Skerrit’s throat. Shaking his head, the killer set down the glass and returned to his questioning.
‘I said does she live in?’ he repeated.
‘No.’
‘Where then – and my jaw aches too much to keep on talking unnecessary.’
‘She’s got a room down at Mama Cochrane’s place,’ Zimmerman replied and paused, then saw the anger furrow forming between Skerrit’s eyes, so continued, ‘It’s a small frame house around by the side of the livery barn.’
‘Does she know that hound dog man?’
‘Not unless she met him in some other town. He’s not been in here before – a man wouldn’t forget him easy.’
‘I know I won’t,’ purred Skerrit, touching his jaw with a gentle fingertip. ‘When’s the next stage due out of this one-hoss town?’
‘Not until the day after tomorrow.’
An uneasy sensation began to creep over Zimmerman as he considered the way in which the conversation ran. Suddenly he began to realize that more than a mere customer-girl relationship lay behind Skerrit’s interest in Pauline. Being a man of some experience, Zimmerman started to draw conclusions; and did not like what he saw.
‘There’s no freight outfit likely to be pulling out tonight?’ Skerrit asked.
‘There’s not one in town to go.’
‘How about that hound dog man, will he pull out soon?’
‘I’d say “yes” to that,’ Zimmerman admitted. ‘He’s been down here after a cougar that slaughtered almost a hundred sheep from one flock. With that message from Desborough, he’ll likely be pulling out real soon.’
‘Where’d I find his wagon?’
‘I don’t know.’
Skerrit looked an obvious question, but Zimmerman held back from obeying it. By all the signs, the water began to rise to beyond the level of safety Zimmerman expected in any enterprise to which he lent his assistance. Sensing the other’s reluctance and guessing at its cause, Skerrit took the wallet from his inside pocket. He extracted a letter from the wallet and passed it to Zimmerman. Surprise and respect began to creep on to Zimmerman’s face as he read the message on the sheet of paper. It removed any lingering doubts he might have as to the advisability of helping the killer.
‘So you’re working for him,’ the saloonkeeper breathed, folding the letter almost reverently.
‘You could telegraph and ask,’ answered Skerrit with a mocking grin.
Rising, Zimmerman went to the office door and looked into the barroom. One of his bouncers saw him and came forward. The man proved better informed than his employer and gave the required information.
‘You’ll find the wagon at the livery barn,’ reported Zimmerman on rejoining Skerrit after closing the door. ‘Dale left it there while he took out after the cougar.’
‘I’m going out the back way, Zimmerman,’ Skerrit said, sliding the Smith & Wesson into its holster. ‘Only I’ve never left the office, should anybody ask.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Zimmerman without any enthusiasm.
‘Keep that letter safe for me. If I run into trouble, I’d sooner not have it found on me.’
Considering the contents of the letter, Zimmerman felt agreement with his guest. Nor did he care for the idea of holding on to such an important and incriminating item. Not that he went so far as to voice his opinion.
‘I’ll see to it,’ he promised, sounding less happy by the word.
‘Make sure nobody’s about out there,’ ordered Skerrit and when the saloonkeeper reported all was clear went through the rear door into the night. Before walking away, he repeated his earlier warning. ‘Remember now. I never left your office.’
With that he strolled away, leaving a scared, worried Zimmerman to shut the door. While strolling through the deserted back streets of the town, Skerrit gave thought to the girl’s possible course of actions. Every instinct gained in several years of such work told him that she would try to escape. She had shown a remarkable ability to run and slipped out of two other towns when her pursuers drew near. Knowing of his presence, and being fully aware of what he came to do, Pauline would try to leave town fast. How to do so would be her problem, unless she reached the same conclusion which Skerrit foresaw. Any man sufficiently reckless and gallant to horn in as Scobie Dale had, might be expected to carry the affair through to its bitter end. If the girl thought so, she would go to Dale. Yet she was unlikely to desert her property. At least she had not in the other two towns.
The route taken by Skerrit brought him to Mama Cochrane’s small frame house before he reached the livery barn. It might be advisable to prevent the girl joining Scobie Dale and inside the house would be the place to do it. While Mama Cochrane’s home did not carry the usual hanging red lamp to guide travelers to its hospitable doors, it was a ‘house’ and in such a place Skerrit might expect a certain license as well as the kind of assistance Zimmerman had already rendered.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ said a peevish voice as Skerrit pounded on the building’s front door. A short, fat old woman wearing a once garish but now dirty robe opened the door and peered suspiciously out.
‘Is Pauline here?’ Skerrit asked.
‘Tried where she works?’ demanded Mama Cochrane. ‘This ain’t the sort of—’
‘The law stop you running it that way?’ growled Skerrit. ‘I remember them closing you in Caspar.’
‘That was because—’
‘I know what it was because,’ interrupted Skerrit. ‘Now let’s get the hell inside. I won’t ask peaceable again.’
During a life spent first as girl, then Madame, in a variety of cathouses across the country, Mama Cochrane had learned many lessons. She could tell the kind of man she dealt with and knew better than to stand arguing.
‘I can tell by the smell that you’re no John Law,’ she sniffed and stood aside. ‘Ain’t Pauline down at the saloon?’
‘Would I be here asking for her if she was?’ growled Skerrit. The effects of the whiskey had begun to wear off and his jaw throbbed again.
‘Reckon not. Hell, mister, she could have come back and me not heard her, if she used the back way. I’ve got some nice girls here if you can’t find her. One of ’em’s a real Italian countess—’
‘You had a German duchess in Caspar, only she’d been born in Williamsburg, Pennsylvania, it came out. Where’s Pauline’s room?’
‘Down the back there,’ Mama answered. ‘I let some of Zimmy’s girls live in here, but keep them away from mine.’
Followed by Skerrit, the woman went through to the rear of the building and along a passage with half-a-dozen doors let into its left wall. Halting before one of the doors, she indicated it as being rented to the girl he sought.
‘Let’s have a key,’ ordered Skerrit, reaching for the handle. ‘And don’t waste any more time if you want to stay in business.’
Like Zimmerman, Mama knew enough to guess at Skerrit’s trade. In fact, when she found time to study the man in decent light, she recognized him and could remember certain important connections he served. The threat of putting her out of business was not an idle one; he – or rather his connections – possessed the means to do it with more permanency than the law ever managed. Dipping her hand into the robe’s pocket, she produced a master key and inserted it into the keyhole. After turning the key, she twisted at the door-handle but found it did not turn.
>
‘There’s a chair jammed under the handle,’ she told Skerrit.
‘Is, huh?’ he grunted.
Dropping his shoulder, he charged the door. Twice he rammed hard into the wood and the panel splintered under the second impact. Ignoring Mama’s protests, Skerrit turned and kicked in the panel. He reached through, gripped the chair that had been placed leaning so that its back held firm under the handle and after some difficulty freed it. Tossing the chair aside, he opened the door and entered a small room. In the light of the passage’s lamp he looked around the room. One glance told him that he came too late. Pauline had been back, as was proved by the jammed door, open drawers in the small dressing table, a stocking lying on the floor – and the sight of the open window. Walking to the window, Skerrit looked out. About a hundred yards away stood the dark bulk of the livery barn. Skerrit drew his head back into the room and turned to rejoin Mama in the passage.
‘Get your door fixed,’ he said, handing her a couple of ten-dollar bills. ‘And forget I’ve ever been here.’
‘Sure, mister,’ Mama replied.
‘You don’t ask questions, or raise a squawk,’ Skerrit said. ‘I like that.’
‘Mention it to your boss,’ said the practical Mama. ‘I’m tired of being cooped up in this one-horse flea-trap town.’
Skerrit did not reply. Turning on his heel, he walked back into the front hall. A pounding on a front door caused him to halt and throw an inquiring glance at the woman.
‘Into my room while I see who it is,’ she hissed, indicating a door.
Fuming at the delay, Skerrit obeyed. He entered the woman’s private room and drew his Smith & Wesson while peeking through the narrow crack he had left the door open. The knockers proved to be a trio of cowhands, all carrying a load of Old Stump Blaster internally and seeking the kind of diversion Mama supplied for a price. Impatiently Skerrit waited until the normal prior formalities of such a visit were carried out. After Mama showed her new guests upstairs, he left the room and went out of the front door. By the time Mama returned, full of sympathetic explanations and apologies for the delay, she found no need for them, Skerrit had gone,