Читать книгу Complete Novels - Ernest Haycox - Страница 91

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About a dozen of the Bucket punchers came riding into Sundown during the middle of the morning, squired by Nightingale himself and Steve Steers. Al Niland walked out of the courthouse, lines of anxiety on his face.

"Well, heard anything yet?"

Steve shook his head. "We came by D Slash. There wasn't only a few boys there. Denver ain't come back so far, nor any of the bunch under him. Nobody's heard a thing."

"You know about Leverage?" queried Niland.

"Why, we met a fella on the road that told us somethin'. He rammed into Redmain, as I got it, and didn't make out so well. And took a little lead himself."

"Worse than that," interposed Niland. "He's halfway dead. Old Jake thought he was sneakin' up on Redmain's wild ones when Redmain smashed him just where Jake wasn't entertaining any suspicions. The vigilantes buckled up for a minute, but Jake rode right at Redmain's party, yelling for the rest to come along. He took it plenty. May live and may not."

"Yeah, but that ain't what gets me so much. What in the name o' Judas was the matter with these aforesaid vigilantes? Redmain hit and run, didn't he? And they heard more firm' up above a ways, didn't they? They mighta known it was Denver loopin' into action. Why didn't they folla?"

"They stopped to pick up the pieces, I hear," said Niland. "When they finally did follow there wasn't anything to be seen of anybody except one D Slash fellow some cut up.

"Agh," snorted Steve disgustedly. "First time I lay eyes on one of these vigilantes I'm going to tell him somethin' to make his ears ring."

"Well, we ought to hear pretty soon," said Niland and jerked his thumb at Grogan's. Steve looked to the Englishman questioningly.

"Do as you please," said Nightingale. "I'll be over at the Association meeting for a while. If by then we have no word about Denver, we'll ride back to his ranch. And if there is still no news, I wouldn't be surprised but what we took a little jog into the country he disappeared through."

Steers and Niland watched him amble across the street. "He's furrin," observed Steers, "but blamed if he ain't a human duck. Been a-frettin' about this business all mornin'. I spend half my time unroppin' him from the rope he essays to throw and the other half tryin' to figure if his jokes is sad or funny. He actually don't know enough about a cow to figure whether yuh carve out beefsteak on the hoof and turn the critter loose again or what. But he shore knows horses."

"How about that drink?" suggested Niland.

"You bet I will," agreed Steve, and turned around. In so doing his eyes fell upon a feminine figure standing by the hotel porch. Instantly something stabbed Steve Steers in the middle of the back; or such was the impression Niland gathered from the look that froze on the puncher's face. He swallowed hard, and mumbled. "That is, no thanks. Got to see Debbie." And he trotted toward the porch like a hound that had been whistled for. Niland sighed and went into Grogan's alone.

Sundown quivered with tension. The news of Leverage's ill fortune had reached town early, and shortly after a call went out for a meeting of the Association. So now men rode in and walked the streets uneasily; drifted together to exchange news. A man had ridden down Prairie Street to scout the road. Earlier in the morning a Leverage puncher had galloped in to summon Doc Williamson, refusing to talk. And Doc had gone off with the man hurriedly.

The practical defeat of the vigilantes shocked Sundown out of its lazy calm. Lou Redmain ceased to be a minor factor in the country; in one brief evening he had achieved notoriety, and when the gathering men spoke of him it was with a lurking doubt mixed with their profane anger. If he had whipped Leverage, if he had so recruited the wild bunch that he could stand off an organized force, who ruled Yellow Hill then? What was to prevent him from instituting a guerrilla warfare from one isolated ranch to another? The timid felt this immediately and began to fall silent, lest the red mark of destruction be placed against them and their habitations; and Sundown witnessed the drying up of casual talk, the coming of an alien reserve. For always in a land where the law goes to pieces the first rule is the rule of self- preservation.

Al Niland was in Grogan's, brooding over this, turning other matters as well darkly around his mind. Steele's death had made a gap in the ranks of friendship that never would be filled. If anything happened to Denver—Niland rejected the thought. He simply could not tolerate the premise that disaster would ever overtake Dave Denver. Other men might weaken or blunder, other men might go crashing down to ruin and death. This was mortality. But, logical as Niland was, he somehow could never bring himself to accept Denver as ordinary. Denver always came crawling out from the bottom of the wreckage, grinning cheerfully. In short, Denver's career had created a legend of personal power that was hard to shake off. Niland was analytical enough to realize this; he knew also that nobody could look at Denver impartially. Men either hated him or trusted and followed him with a kind of fanatical zeal.

"Good God!" grunted Niland. "I'm conductin' a post mortem. All I got to say is this'll be a sorry place if he's gone down the chute. Which the Lord forbid!"

He turned from the bar and saw Steve Steers coming in. Steve looked harried. Niland thought, "Debbie's pushed him just an inch too far, and I'm sort of glad." Steve made straight for the bar and slapped his palm resoundingly on the mahogany.

"Trot out the hog wash," he called. Grogan, who never liked any such reference to his product, pushed bottle and glass toward the puncher. "No law compellin' you to drink my liquor, Steers."

Steve straightened. Honeyed softness caressed his words. "Grogan, my lad, I have observed your lordly manner some frequent, and I'm reminded of the horse that put on a shirt and tried to eat off the parlor table. I pay for your booze, and I'm entitled to pass judgment on it. If you got anything definite to say to me, let's hear it."

Grogan stared, the rims of his eyes reddening. There was cruelty in the man, plenty of it, and he never hesitated to cuff a trouble maker out of his place. Yet he backed water in front of Steve Steers. "Somebody must've stepped on yore foot, Mister Steers."

"Be that as it may, I feel like steppin' on somebody else's foot. Al, you drinkin' with me? I despise drinkin' alone."

"Sure," said Niland. "But I thought you was temperamentally opposed to liquor."

"Ha!" snorted Steve and took his jot without a quiver. "That's the trouble with me. I ain't got a mind of my own any more. I can't do nothin' without lookin' on the chart to see if it's proper. Debbie issues orders. Her old lady tells me where to head in. The old gent bites me off short. Even the eleven-year-old mutt of a Lunt kid roots me on the shins. I'd like to haul off four feet behind my breeches and spank him into next leap year. But no. I'm just the swivel-eyed ape which hangs around the Lunt house and gets pushed outa the road. Ha! Grogan, bring me a glass that ain't half plugged up with scum. I want a drink."

"I don't know if I better leave you alone," reflected Niland. "You'll foam any minute now."

"Hear anything new?" demanded Steers, drawing the bottle to him.

"No. Don't even see any of the vigilantes in town."

Steers turned to face the room. "Vigilantes? Ain't that somethin' to make yuh die laughin'? Hey, is there any of you vigilantes in these premises? I'd shore like to see what great big scrappin' hellions yuh are!"

There was no answer. Without question he was on the warpath. One of the Nightingale riders, seeing the foreman of the outfit hell-bent for trouble, slipped quickly from the hall. Steers raked the assembled citizens with a bright eye. "None present, uh? Well, I reckon they must all be home in bed, nursin' their busted arches. If I'd run as fast as they did to get away from Lou Redmain I'd have busted arches, too. And what is more, I wouldn't have nerve enough to come back to Sundown!"

Niland thoughtfully called Steve's attention to the empty glass. "After a large statement like that you must be dry. There was heat in the remarks. Presuming on the perquisites of friendship I would suggest you have covered a scope of ground somewhat wider than the spread of your elbows. Think it over."

"Think? All I been doin' lately is thinkin'—about my duty, about my responsibilities, about bein' a gentleman. What's it brought me? Nothin' but grief. I wasn't made to think. I was made to bust forth and do the first thing that came in my head. What're all you dudes sittin' around for? Somebody run out and see if they's news of Denver. You—over there. Git goin'."

"Pretty soon you're going to need an armored battleship to get out of this town whole," prophesied Niland.

"Oh, no," said Steve, dripping in sarcasm. "Ev'body's all tuckered out from runnin'. Tie that, will yuh? Runnin' from Lou Redmain, the kinky little belly-slashin' rat! Runnin' away from him and leavin' a man in the lurch which none of 'em is good enough to lick his shoes!"

Niland let out a small sigh of relief. Nightingale men were slipping unobtrusively into the saloon. Steve had his bodyguard, though he failed to realize it. He lowered his voice to Niland.

"She said she'd turn me off like a crummy shirt if I ever got drunk, Al. Yeah, Debbie said that. Now you just watch me. She's a thousand times too good for a shif'less egg like me. I'm unregenerate. She thinks she can straighten a crooked nail. Dammit, I don't want to be improved. Just stay around and drink now and then with me while I get drunk. Grogan, trot out another bottle of that doctored dishwater."

"I've got no more time to drink, Steve. Something on tap."

"Any time's time to drink," said Steve, falling upon Cal Steele's well remembered phrase. The two men stared at each other as if the ghost of their friend stood lazy and smiling between them. Steve's face was suddenly lined and heavy. "I know. You go on. You're in no position to wallow in the mud with me. I'll get somebody." He shoved himself away from the bar and concentrated on the room. His finger stabbed out, and it may have been wholly by accident that it fairly tagged two rather willing characters—Meems and Wango. Possibly it was accident, though the gentlemen in question seldom missed a free meal and never had been known to refuse a drink.

"Come here!" bellowed Steers. "You two! Stand right beside me. When I drink, you match me. See?"

"It ain't as hard as it sounds," said Buck Meems. "Mebbe you'd better let us get evened up afore we start off."

Steers seemed to recognize them for the first time. "Huh—the human sponges. Well it's all right. I'll know I'm drunk when I see you road runners start wabblin'. Al—Al. When you hear anything come right back and let me know."

Niland nodded, spoke quietly to one of the Nightingale punchers, and walked out. What he said was, "Don't any of you fellows cramp his style. He could just about lick the contents of the saloon alone in his present state. Don't encourage him by interfering."

Niland paused to scan the street for new arrivals and found none. He crossed to Doc Williamson's office, but it was empty. Lola Monterey came quickly from the New York grocery and wheeled in front of him, whereat he lifted his hat and answered her question before she asked it. "Not a word, Lola."

He saw her fists double up around a package. It made him offer the old and well-worn assurance. "No news is good news. There never was the hole Dave couldn't wiggle through."

"If you knew Lou Redmain as I do—" said she, and never finished the sentence. He watched her walk away, and an odd flash of thought came to him about the Biblical Mary and Martha. The opera house doors were closed, and a puncher guarded them; on impulse he used his right as an Association member and went in. Fear Langdell slouched in a stage chair. A small rancher held the floor, talking in a half-hearted sort of way.

"...I want you-all to realize we've got no militia to call on, no rangers to drag in. Here we are, the biggest, roughest county in the state, cut off from down country. We always have had to fight our own battles, and we will now. Some of you smoke eaters forget that these hills make perfect shelter for the wild bunch. Just try and run 'em all down. If we'd gone about this with a less heavy hand and a hell of a lot of less advertisement we wouldn't of pushed the bad ones into a single herd where they can do us the most damage. We are lookin' right square into no-law country. Lou Redmain's got nothin' less than another Hole-in-the- Wall bunch. And if you had lived in Wyoming like me you'd flinch every time you thought about it. I figured Leverage would anyhow keep things quiet by a show of force. But I had hopes Denver would smash 'em once he made up his mind. There ain't anybody else that could. If he's gone, I just don't know how I can face the prospect of livin' on my place with the wife and kids. I just don't..."

Niland left the hall in need of air. "So they're singin' Dave's swan song. Well, they don't know the man!" But, going along the courthouse corridor and back to his office he remembered an odd thing Denver once had told him. It was about how fast bad news swept over Yellow Hill County. Denver had pointed to the sky and said, "It's one of those things I don't try to explain. Call it the invisible telegraph, if you want. But it comes through the air. I know it. I've felt it. The Indians knew it too. The news of Custer's being wiped out traveled to tribes three hundred miles south before a messenger could even ride thirty miles. It's just another part of the mystery of this country. Whispering Range—there never was a truer name. Some days there's a pressure all around me that's like a smotherin' blanket. I know better than to take chances on those days. Somewhere there's an old medicine drum beating, and the echo of it passes along."

Niland closed his office door, locked it, and threw the dark reveries from his head with conscious effort. Impatiently he lit his pipe, unlocked a drawer, and took therefrom a long leather folder. Out of it he drew a broken sheet of paper, smoothed it on the table, and bent his slim, rebellious face in scrutiny, as he had done a dozen times in the last eight hours.

He had found it in an odd corner of Cal Steele's desk which he had inspected after being appointed executor of the dead man's estate. He would have set it aside as of no importance except that in the back of his mind was the question Dave Denver had planted there. He had been musing ever since over the figures penned upon it. On the left margin apparently Steele had indicated dates. In the center the figures obviously stood for sums of money, and each one following its date. Niland had concluded that these represented proceeds from cattle sales. But what defied his logic was that to the right of each sum had been set a figure 3 as a divisor, and still to the right of this divisor was put down the exact third of the original sum. There were a dozen such individual transactions over a period of about a year.

Nothing in his subsequent searches quite satisfied him. There were instruments of sale of stock between Steele and Fear Langdell registered in the courthouse. Some of them closely followed the dates on this sheet of paper. Others seemed not to. Casual questioning had revealed no sale of cattle from Steele to any other rancher in the district; but the cattleman had made four moderate shipments to the Salt Lake yards during the year. And that was all Niland had discovered.

Niland settled back and blew the smoke heavily across his table. That figure 3 kept working through his head. Cal Steele had no partners. He had no relatives in the country. Nothing in his papers indicated kin or birthplace. Behind his arrival in Yellow Hill were only silence and mystery; nor had Steele ever broken it by spoken confidence. So then, why this three-part division of money?

He put away his pipe with a quick gesture, placed the sheet of paper in his pocket and rose. "Lord forgive me!" he muttered. "I may be sorry for what I find." He went through the business of unlocking and locking, passed to the street, and aimed for the bank. A quick survey told him no news had arrived so far in Sundown. And carrying his oppressive, foreboding fears with him, he entered the bank and met Ed Storm, a blocky middle-aged man who had inherited the institution from earlier members of the family. Storm's assistant was also in the place. Niland nodded briefly to the inner office and entered it. Storm came afterward.

"You look," he observed, "like you were standing on the peak of Ararat two days after the flood, with no grub in sight."

"Well, I feel like I'd been sent for and was only half present. Ed, you know me pretty well, don't you? There ain't a whole lot you don't fathom about me."

"This has all the earmarks of a touch," grinned Storm. "I've seen you throw back five-inch trout and refuse to shoot a doe. Nothing wrong with your moral integrity."

Niland failed to respond to the humor. He talked in jerky phrases, seemingly far afield. "Ethics. We've all got our professional ethics. They're fine things to start life with. Yet I doubt if there's a professional man living who hasn't violated his creed time and again. For admirable purposes, too. Man builds up a pretty schedule of ideals—and life knocks it flatter than a pancake. When I'm old and shot and look back down the crooked trail I hacked out, I think I'll be kind of sad at the fine thoughts I threw overboard. But I think I'll also hope to hear somebody in the hereafter say, 'Well done, good and faithful servant.'"

"Now that you're all wound up, toss the loop," said Ed Storm.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," went on Niland with a rise of energy. "They're questions you could only properly answer in court, but this is something that never will get to court. It dies outside of sight. You understand, Ed? You know, too that I have never blackmailed a man, never clubbed him down with any information I've had against him."

"Fire away—and we'll see what we see, Al."

"All right. I'm not going to explain anything. If you get any ideas on the subject from the way I bore in—that's under your hat. First, did Lou Redmain ever have an account in this bank?"

"That's easy. No."

"Did he ever cash any checks here—within the last year?"

"Yes."

"Were any of those checks from Cal Steele?"

Storm arched his eyebrows. "No."

"From Fear Langdell?"

"Nope."

Niland paused, stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. "You've cleared checks through the bank from Langdell to Steele for sale of beef. I know that. But have you cleared any checks from Steele to Langdell?"

"No-o," said Storm with a slight drag in the answer. Niland studied the banker. Unconsciously he was exercising his habit as an attorney of reading the qualifications and reservations behind witnesses' answers.

"Listen—was Cal Steele in the habit of drawing out large sums of money at a time?"

"Cash—yes."

Niland plunged into the opening swiftly.

"Right after receiving these checks from Langdell?"

Storm stopped to think. "Not necessarily on the same day or week. But he was a hand to draw heavy whenever his balance got substantially large. My one observation is that on the occasions when he drew considerable cash he'd take a trip south to the capital."

Niland's thoughts went off on this tangent. He was aware that Cal Steele often went away for a few days. On the heels of this reflection he tried to place Langdell's whereabouts at those times and found himself doubtful.

"Does Langdell have a bank account at the capital, Ed?"

"Oh, yes. That'd be necessary for him, considering all the investments he's got scattered around."

"Well, after Steele made his trips to the capital, did you ever observe Langdell switching money from the bank there to your bank?"

"Couldn't answer that without looking into the records," said Storm. He leaned forward in his chair, watching Niland. The lawyer decided to test the meaning of Storm's attention.

"Anything you'd care to say to me, Ed, that might bear on the subject?"

But Storm shook his head. "I'm just giving you straight yes or no answers, Al."

Niland leaned back. "I'd give a great deal to see the written record of Fear Langdell's check account durin' the last six months. And it's criminal as hell to suggest it."

Storm rose without a word and left the room. A few minutes later he came back with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He placed them casually on his desk. "No, Al, I couldn't hand you Langdell's records. That would open me up to all sorts of grief. I'd never want to be placed on the witness stand and have to confess that I verbally gave you any such dope. By the way, I've got to go out front for about ten minutes. Just make yourself at home, Al. I won't be back for ten minutes."

The two men swapped glances. Storm went out and closed the door. Niland leaned forward. Those papers Storm had left on the desk, he saw, were the ledger sheets and transit check records concerning Langdell's account. He drew the crumpled slip from his pocket. Occasionally his pencil touched and checked a figure; but when, an exact ten minutes later, Storm returned, he found Niland slouched idly in the chair. "Sorry I had to run out on you. Anything else you want to know?"

"No," said Niland.

"Whatever has passed between us is confidential."

"I'd like the privilege of tellin' one man, Ed."

"Hell!" grunted Storm, frowning. "Who is it?"

"Denver," replied Niland, and added, "if he's alive."

"I trust you—I trust him. Now I'm going to wash my face and hands."

"I've tried it at times," reflected Niland, getting up. "But what's the use? Nobody can live a useful life without gettin' dirty. What do you expect of Sundown? See you later, Ed."

On the street he found the scene changed somewhat. A great many men were standing just outside Grogan's. Nobody was going in and nobody coming out, but those by the doors seemed intently interested at the sounds emerging. Thinking that Steve Steers had developed a fight, he elbowed through the crowd and entered. Steve was lecturing the room morosely.

"When I tell you buzzards to play cards, then yuh can do it, and not a minute before. This always was a lousy joint, full of petty ante grafters and run by a sticky-fingered mug who's got a spine made o' yella soap. Meems, quit crawlin' against the bar."

Niland came forward, and Steve stopped talking. Both of his elbows were hooked against the bar; he swayed like a tree in a heavy wind. The alcoholic stupor blurred his vision; he failed to recognize Niland until the latter approached to arm's length. Then Steve stiffened—and remembered.

"Any news?"

"None."

"I had ought to of gone along," muttered Steve. "Ruther be dead than wait like this. Have a drink, Al."

Niland shook his head. "How drunk do you have to be, Steve? You're about paralyzed now."

"It ain't enough," sighed Steve. "Grogan, this bug-killer of yores is either rotten poison or else yore miserable mug is double. Always did know yuh to be two-faced."

Grogan leaned against the bottle shelf, breathing hard. One palm lay against a blackjack on the shelf. "I had about enough from you, Steers. My face is good enough for you, and my liquor is straight."

"Both of which is neither," jeered Steve. "Layin' for me, ain't yuh? Try it and I'll break yore back, you ox."

Meems and Wango went off in a sputtering argument. All Grogan's free lunch platters were on the bar in front of them, fearsomely raped. The litter of chicken bones and half bitten sandwiches strewed the floor at their feet.

"Don't yuh eat nothin' but white meat?" demanded Wango. "I been nibblin' on wings and necks till I c'd crow an' fly away. Gimme a chanst."

"Thasso? Ev'time I reach I run into yore cussed arm. Git yore fool head outa the platter. It ain't no bed."

"I'm tellin' yuh once an' all—quit throwin' yore bones anunder my feet!"

"I alius—uck—throw scraps to the dawg, Wango."

"Don't throw no more bones anunder my feet!"

"He calls 'em feet!" cackled Meems.

Steve reached for the bottle. "Hit this, you sod busters. Ain't there nothin' that'll stop yuh but arsenic?"

Meems shook with palsy as he drank. Wango paled and began to shudder enormously. Both of his feet were inside the brass rail; attempting to maneuver around, he began to wilt. His feet slid, his knees buckled, his hind quarters struck the rail, bounced, and settled to the floor. Meems, bereft of moral support, laid his head on the bar. "I reckon—I done got ample," he moaned. "My Gawd, what a night!"

Steve stared at the partners. "They never was no good and never will be. But if they look like I think they look, then I shore must be hog drunk." With a jerk of his arm he swallowed what remained in his glass. "Now I got to take my punishment. Stay here, Al, till I come back."

He batted the doors before him, glowered at the crowd, passed through. Toward the hotel he rolled. There was sweat on his face and a film over his eyes. Once he thought he would never make it and slouched against a hitching rack; but a horse backed away from him, and that roused sufficient anger to propel him to the hotel porch. He couldn't see Debbie and he knew he never would be able to master the stairs. So he dropped his anchor and called.

"Debbie—oh, Debbie."

Then she was standing above him, silent and still. She held her chin steady, but in a sudden passion of self-disgust he saw that he had hurt her as no other soul had ever done. The deep blue of her eyes was covered by a cloud. He had shamed her, soiled her by coming out in the street and calling her name. The damage was done, and for the rest of his life he would regret it. Even so, he clung to his purpose.

"Debbie," said he, "I'm drunk."

Something else appeared in her eyes. She spoke softly and not with the tart impatience to which he was accustomed. "I see that, Steve. Maybe we have waited too long. On the first of the month we'll be married. And you'll never drink again."

"What's that? Debbie—but, Debbie, yuh said—"

She was gone. Steve turned and plowed back to the saloon, on through the crowd, on across the hall to the bar. And in front of Al Niland he exploded.

"My God, Al, why don't wimmen make up their minds and stick to it? Here I went and spent thirty dollars to get this way—and it went for nothin'! Wimmen—why—!"

A running, rising murmur swept the saloon.

"Here's somebody! Clear that door—!"

"Doc—"

"Denver—"

That last name was repeated again with a dying inflection. The talk fell off. Steve turned slowly. The first face he saw was that of Al Niland, set and pallid. Then he discovered a figure framed in the doors, a tall, spare figure. Doc Williamson. Doc passed a hand across his forehead and broke the hush.

"I guess you boys had better know it. Dave Denver is dead."

All men are touched with queerness. Steve Steers pivoted on his heels and faced Grogan behind the bar. He called Grogan a name, a name than which there can be none worse when spoken as Steve spoke it. Grogan leaped for his blackjack. Steve smashed the man's head with a whisky bottle and flung the broken neck after Grogan's sinking bulk. He saw nothing but red streaks of fire, and it was an act of Providence that guided him through the door. Fifteen minutes later one of the Nightingale men found him stretched on the ground back of the Palace, stone sober. Crying like a child.