Читать книгу Black John of Halfaday Creek - James Beardley Hendryx - Страница 5

With his money locked in Cushing’s safe, Beezely shared Black John’s cabin, spending his days roaming up or down the creek inspecting the abandoned claims that the big man described to him, and his evenings in playing stud in the saloon.

One morning, a week after Beezely’s arrival, Cush asked Black John an abrupt question as the two stood drinking together at the bar: “How do you like yer lodger, John?”

Black John grinned. “Oh, about as well as the average man would, I s’pose. Why?”

“Nothin’—except that it looks to me like he could of found some place to suit him before this. Here he’s be’n pokin’ around amongst all the empty shacks on the crick fer a week.”

“Yeah, he went ’way up that feeder to look over Whisky Bill’s old shack today. I was tellin’ him about it last night.”

“Olson’s old cabin, down the crick, is the best of the bunch—best claim, too.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told him. But when I told him about Olson an’ Stamm an’ some of the others that’s sojourned in it, he claimed it was too onlucky to suit him.”

“Huh,” grunted Cush, “with his luck, it don’t look like he’d have to worry none. He ain’t made a damn losin’ at stud yet. Wins every night. Jest shoved ten thousan’ more in the safe fer him this mornin’!”

“H-u-m, that makes a hundred an’ thirteen thousan’, don’t it?”

“Shore it does. An’ I’m jest wonderin’ if he ain’t crooked.”

Black John’s grin widened. “Why, Cush! Shorely you wouldn’t suspect a lawyer that would do all he done fer his clients, of crookedness, would you?”

“Well, I don’t know. About the cards, I mean. It looks like he’s got jest too damn much luck fer one man to have. But we’ve never ketched him at nothin’. An’ several of the boys has be’n watchin’ pretty clost, too. Tellin’ you about me, I ain’t never seen no man yet which he had a couple of snake eyes set right up agin a thin nose that I’d trust him very fer. This here Beezely—every time he opens them hard, thin lips of his’n, I expect to see a forked tongue snick out an’ in. An’ another thing, I don’t like the way them eyes sort of lingers on the safe, neither.”

“Oh, he’s jest kind of interested in the safe, I guess. He’s got quite a lot in it.”

“Yeah,” answered Cush dryly. “An’ so’ve we.”

A form darkened the doorway, and a man stepped hurriedly into the room and advanced to the bar. Both saw that he was one Booker T. Breckenridge, a name-canner who had appeared on Halfaday some six months before and located a claim up the creek. He was a quiet man who minded his own business. Black John rather liked him.

“Hello, Book,” he greeted. “Jest in time to jine us in a drink. Cush is about to buy one.”

Old Cush slid a glass toward the newcomer and entered a round of drinks against Black John in the day book. Breckenridge downed the drink and turned to the big man.

“Kin I see you a few minutes alone?” he asked. “It’s important.”

“Why, shore. Jest step on over to my cabin.” When the two were seated Black John filled and lighted his pipe. “What’s on yer mind?” he asked abruptly. “I ain’t seen you around fer a couple of weeks.”

“No, I be’n workin’ pretty hard up on the claim. That stuff’s gittin’ better as she goes down. What I wanted to tell you—I come up out of the hole this mornin’ to crank up my bucket, when who the hell was standin’ there but old Quince Beezely, the crookedest damn skunk that ever walked on his hind legs! An’, what’s more, he claimed he was stoppin’ with you.”

“Yeah,” admitted the big man. “Beezely’s stoppin’ here till he kin look him up a location.”

“Location—hell! He’s got his location all right!”

“Goin’ into Whisky Bill’s old shack, eh? Well, that ain’t sech a bad proposition, if a man was to work it right.”

“Goin’ into Cush’s safe!” exploded the other. “Old Quince never got his claws on an honest dollar in his life.”

“What makes you say he’s crooked?” asked Black John mildly. “He told me he was a criminal lawyer.”

The other’s lips twisted into a wry grin. “He is,” he said. “Both. An’ the reason I say he’s crooked is because it’s the God’s truth. He’s crooked, an’ he’s smart—so damn smart that if he hadn’t be’n crooked he could have cleaned up a million.”

“Then he ain’t smart,” grinned Black John.

“That’s right, too—in a way. What I mean, there wasn’t a mouthpiece in the country that could keep a guy out of stir, like Quince Beezely could. He knows all the old tricks—an’ invented new ones. He’d have a jury wipin’ the sympathy out of their eyes fer some stiff that bumped off his gran’mother fer her insurance money. He’d grease everyone from the cops to the judge, an’ fix the jury, to boot. He’d git a yegg out on bail so he could pull some job that would pay fer his defense. Not only that, he’d lay out the job fer him, an’ case it, an’ then dispose of the stuff—an’ then he’d git the guy off when he come to trial.

“An’ not only that, but he’d work on the parole board fer some guy that was already doin’ a stretch. Oh, he was a lulu—Quince was—until he got to playin’ both ends against the middle.”

“Yeah,” observed Black John. “He told me that he always had the best interests of his clients at heart.”

“An’ that’s a damn lie, too,” retorted the other. “Here’s one he pulled a year ago—jest before I come away. He laid out a big mail-robbery job an’ got a mob together that was the tops. The job was pulled. The boys took that mail-car like nobody’s business an’ made a clean git-away to a bungalow Quince had rented over on the west side. There was about twenty, thirty thousan’ in cash . . . an’ bonds that run right around a quarter of a million. Quince took over all the stuff—the cash fer the fall money, in case anything went wrong—an’ the bonds to dispose of when the heat cooled.

“Well—somethin’ went wrong, all right. Two nights later the cops crashed the hide-out an’ gathered in the whole mob. One dick got knocked off—an’ that made two murders, countin’ the mail clerk. What happened? Quince had tipped off the bulls, see? But up to then the mob didn’t know that. They laid their hard luck to Dopey Dick Fliegle, ’cause he’d slipped out to the corner the night before to git a newspaper. The boys didn’t worry none. They figgered they wasn’t so bad off. Old Quince would sure clear ’em at the trial. But Quince didn’t. He lost every one of them cases. The whole mob—there was six of ’em—got life—an’ Quince got the cash an’ the bonds.

“The boys tumbled then. They squawked their heads off down in Joliet. But you know how much weight a guy’s squawk carries when he’s in stir fer the long stretch—an’ not a friend on the outside. They laughed at ’em.”

Black John’s brow knitted in a frown. “Didn’t they have no connections—no pals on the outside—that would sort of take care of Beezely fer double-crossin’ ’em?”

Breckenridge laughed shortly. “I told you Quince was smart. He hand-picked that mob. He knows every crook in the country. There wasn’t a damn man in it that wasn’t in bad fer double-crossin’ some pal, er turnin’ state’s evidence, er somethin’. There wasn’t a crook in the country that didn’t laugh with the screws when they heard the squawk. They’d even laughed harder if the mob had got the rope. Most of ’em didn’t believe Quince had crossed ’em up—an’ them that did, said it was a damn good thing—an’ liked Quince all the better.”

“H-u-m,” Black John grunted, “but even so—what a man done before he come to Halfaday ain’t none of our business. It’s what he does after he gits here that interests us. You mentioned, a while back, somethin’ about Cush’s safe.”

“Only that Quince figgers on takin’ it, is all,” grinned Breckenridge.

“How do you know?”

“I know because he told me.” The man’s voice became suddenly hard. “Git an earful of this—there’s plenty on me back in the States an’ old Quince knows it—he knows a lot more about it than even the cops do—an’ they know plenty. I’m wanted on a rap that’s good fer the long stretch—an’ not a chanct of beatin’ it—see? When I hit here an’ draw’d that name out of the can I figger’d I’m all set. I like it here. I believe I’ve got a good thing up the crick an’ I want to stay with it. I’m on the up-an’-up, here on Halfaday. I ain’t claimin’ I always will be, nor none of that crap. Mebbe I will; an’ mebbe I won’t. Anyhow, it’s the first time in years that I ain’t be’n lookin’ over my shoulder. Now Quince shows up. He lamps me the minute I lamps him—see? He figgers I’m right down his alley. He knows there ain’t no box made that I can’t git on the inside of. He tells me how much is in that old can of Cush’s an’ how you guys all think it’s the nuts. Hell, that can wouldn’t stop me fifteen minutes! I could kick a hole in it anywheres—an’ you kin hear them damn old tumblers rattle clean acrost the room. Quince, he claims he’s got the latest thing that’s out in the way of a jointed can opener.”

“Yeah,” agreed Black John. “I was lookin’ it over. I seen him lift a package out of one sack an’ stick it in another the day he come, so one day when he was off down the crick I looked it over. It seems like a useful tool. A man could git a hell of a leverage with it when all them parts was screwed together.”

“Sure. But I wouldn’t need no tool to crack that box. Hell—I could go over there right now an’ git into it as quick as Cush could. Quince kin case a job all right, but when it comes down to doin’ the work, he’d be jest like any other punk—thinkin’ a man would need a can opener fer a job like that! It makes me laugh! Claimed he had a bottle of soup, too.”

“Soup! You mean he’s got nitroglycerin in that bottle? Cripes, I thought it was some kind of licker!”

The other grinned. “If you take a drink of it, don’t set down hard fer a while. But, layin’ the kiddin’ aside, Quince means business. I didn’t say much—jest let him go ahead an’ talk. “He’s figgerin’ on pullin’ the job Sunday night. He claims that the boys will prob’ly play stud all night Saturday, an’ Cush will close early on Sunday night. Claims that’s what they done last week. Says we ort to be in the clear by midnight, Sunday.”

Black John nodded. “Yeah, he’s about right, at that.”

“He claimed there was enough paper in the box so we wouldn’t have to bother with the gold—it would be too heavy.”

“We?”

“Sure—me an’ him. He’s rung me in on the job—see? I told him right flat that I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with it. You guys has be’n on the level with me. An’ like I said, fer the last six months I ain’t be’n lookin’ over my shoulder.

“But Quince jest grins when I tells him that. ‘You’ll begin lookin’ over yer shoulder agin, damn quick,’ he says, ‘if you don’t take on this job. The police in Dawson will have yer prints, an’ a damn good description—an’ a long record. An’ I kin help ’em out with more—plenty more. They’d appreciate a tip on where yer hidin’ out.’ ” The man paused and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “An’ the hell of it is, he’s right. But I’ll be damned if I’ll pull that job! I come awful near killin’ Quince where he stood—but I know’d what the miners’ meetin’ would do about that.”

“Yeah,” agreed Black John. “We don’t encourage murder on Halfaday.”

“It looks like I’m on the spot, no matter which way the cat jumps.”

Black John combed at his thick beard with his fingers. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s only Wednesday. There’s quite a bit of time to figger between now an’ Sunday night. Why not jest let him go ahead an’ pull the job the way he’s got it figgered out?”

“Pull the job!” exclaimed the man. “Hell—it won’t be him pullin’ it. It’ll be me! He’ll be damn good an’ careful not to show up in it. You know what a miners’ meetin’ would do to a guy caught robbin’ that safe! An’ old Quince would be the first one to grab the rope. Damn if I’ll git mixed up in any job on Halfaday. I’ll take it on the lam first.”

The blue-gray eyes of the big man met the eyes of the other squarely. “I’ve got my faults,” he said, with seeming irrelevance. “But double-crossin’ a friend ain’t one of ’em. An’ I’m advisin’ you to go ahead.”

The man’s eyes held Black John’s long and searchingly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take a chance. I better be hittin’ back now. Quince went on up the crick. He told me I better think it over. Said he’d stop late this afternoon fer my answer. Where’ll I see you before Sunday night?”

“Saturday night, like Beezely said, there’ll be a stud game. Beezely’ll be settin’ in it. So will I. At ten o’clock I’ll drop out an’ go out back. You be waitin’ there.”

“Okay. I’ll be seein’ you.”

A few minutes later, when Black John strolled into the saloon, old Cush regarded him searchingly as he set out the bottle and glasses. “What did he want?” he asked.

“What did who want?”

“Why, Breckenridge, of course. Who’d you think I meant?”

“Oh—him. Cripes, I’d fergot he’d even be’n down here. Why, he run in amongst some rocks in his shaft an’ wanted to borrow my pick.”

“Borry a pick? What was so private about that?”

The big man shrugged. “Why, damn if I know. You know how some folks is—kind of secretive that-a-way. Hell, Cush—you don’t think I’d lie to you, do you?”