Death Rides the Night (12 page)

The biscuits were rising nicely and beginning to show a faint tint of gold on their flaky tops. The coffee was boiling and the slices of ham were starting to curl up around the edges, sizzling gently and giving off a satisfying fragrance.

Sally pushed the coffee back and turned the ham. A tender little smile curved her lips as she recalled it was exactly at this moment every morning that Pat came into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee. He timed it exactly so that she was always turning the ham when he came in. He'd stop behind her and slip a hard forearm underneath her chin and tip her head back to kiss her forehead while she laughed and struggled futilely against him, waving the long-tined fork helplessly in the air.

Her body ached for the feel of Pat's body close to her and the sound of his voice asking cheerily, “How's the coffee, old lady?” She blinked back threatening tears and resolutely finished turning the ham. Then she reached down a cup and poured out a cup of coffee just as though she were going to drink it companionably with Pat as usual. She carried it back to a low rocking chair and sat down with it, but it didn't taste as good as usual. There wasn't the acrid smell of Pat's cigarette to go with it and it wasn't seasoned by the early morning banter they always had with their coffee.

For a moment a terrible fear wrung Sally's heart. Suppose Pat never came back? Suppose she had to go through the rest of her life drinking a cup of coffee alone in the kitchen while she waited for the ranch hands to come in for breakfast? A tear splashed into the cup of coffee she held in her hand. She straightened up quickly as Dock's voice came from the doorway, “What's the matter, Mom? Looks like you're cryin' into your coffee. Where's Dad? Did you let
him
sleep late?”

“He isn't here,” Sally told him composedly. “Comb your hair and then sit down at the table. I'm just going to put on the eggs.”

“Where is he, Mom?” Dock lingered in the doorway. “Ain't he come home from town? Was there trouble at the meetin' last night? An' where's Ezra?”

“Comb your hair,” Sally repeated firmly. She finished her coffee and got up to rinse the cup out. She lifted the tender slices of ham onto a big platter and began breaking eggs into the sizzling grease.

“Gee whiz, nobody ever tells me nothin',” Dock complained darkly. He hesitated a moment longer, but Sally's back remained turned and the tantalizing odor of breakfast overcame his curiosity. He turned and hurried out to douse his head in cold water and run a comb through the crisp black hair that was exactly like Pat's.

Sally was setting breakfast on the table when Pete and the other two hands came in from the bunkhouse. Pete said, “Good mornin', Miz Stevens,” and looked at the table with only five places set.

Sally saw his glance, and she explained quickly, “Pat isn't here … and I guess you know about Ezra.”

“Yes'm,” Pete said solemnly. “We know all about Ezra. But I didn't know you did.” He cleared his throat and pulled out a chair to sit down.

“Oh yes,” said Sally calmly. “Pat told me all about it.” She looked at Pete levelly with her chin lifted, as though she challenged him to say something about the way Pat had handled the situation in Dutch Springs.

To her surprise, Pete said admiringly, “Pat done awright, shore enuff. Did him an' Ezra ride by this way?”

“Pat was alone. Don't you know Ezra is in jail?”

Dock came in just then. He stopped stock-still and stared at his mother and said, “In jail? Ezra? How-come?”

“But he ain't,” Pete put in. “Not no more, I mean. I reckon mebby you don't know all of it, Ma'm,” he went on gravely to Sally. “Pat musta rode out here in a hurry to get his guns. We wondered how he pulled off a jail-break without 'em.”

Sally bit her lip and sat down suddenly. “A … jail-break?”

“Yes'm. I reckon he didn't tell you what he planned on, but shucks, it ain't no secret now. I reckon ever'body in the Valley knows how Pat outsmarted Harlow by turnin' Ezra over for jailin' an' then slippin' back an' gettin' him out after Harlow an' his new sheriff had rode off jest leaving two men to guard Ezra.”

“Pat did that?” gasped Sally. “He went in and helped Ezra break out?”

“He shore did,” Pete assured her with a wide grin. “Flabbergasted us, I kin tell you. We thought we was bein' smart when Sam Sloan an' Boyd an' Mr. Winters got all gunned up an' went after Ezra. Found him awready gone an' the two deputies tied up an' madder'n wet hens.”

“Are you sure it was Pat?” Sally demanded.

“I don't reckon nobody's gonna say so out loud in company. He wore a mask an' can't nobody prove 'twas him. But I don't know another man in the hull Valley that'd have the guts to do it single-handed.”

“Gee whiz, nobody tells me nothing,” groaned Dock. “What happened, Pete? About Ezra gettin' arrested and dad breaking him out of jail? How could
dad?
He's the sheriff. What deputies did he leave there guardin' Ezra?”

Pete glanced at Sally doubtfully. She sighed and nodded. “Go ahead and tell him all about it, Pete. He'll worry the life out of me until he does find out, and it isn't anything for him to be ashamed of.”

“It shore ain't,” agreed Pete warmly. “Jest another time when Pat Stevens proved he was smarter'n all the rest of us put together.” He took a big gulp of hot coffee and folded a slice of ham into a buttered biscuit and told the entire tale to the excited boy across the table from him.

“I wonder where Pat took Ezra,” Sally mused when Pete had finished. “He didn't tell me anything about what he was planning to do when he rode away last night.”

“He didn't want you to worry,” Pete guessed. “I reckon he hid Ezra out till things quiet down. Don't you worry about
them
two.”

And Sally inwardly resolved that she wouldn't. Not ever again. She couldn't help being proud of Pat's bold action in releasing Ezra from jail. It was just like him, she thought, to carry out such a plan without any help and without involving anybody else. Not even Sam Sloan. She knew Pat had kept Sam out of it for Kitty's sake. Kitty wasn't in any condition to be worried about her husband being mixed up in any illegality or danger, and Pat had spared her that worry by going ahead without Sam's help.

Dock went out with the men after breakfast to ride with them at their work that day, and Sally cleaned up the breakfast dishes and went on calmly about her self-appointed tasks for the day. All the time she was thinking about Pat with a little swelling of pride in her breast and with a fierce resolution not to worry about him any more.

It was nearly noon and Sally was out in the yard feeding cracked corn to her hens when she saw a deputation of armed men approaching the ranch house. Her heart came up into her throat for a moment because she thought it must be Harlow's men looking for Pat to arrest him for last night's jail-break, but her fears subsided when she recognized the men.

There were only four of them, all ranchers whom she knew well, solid and respected citizens of the Valley. Mr. Simpson and Nate Turner were in the lead, and behind them rode young Pike Gilroy and Arnold Potter.

She tossed the rest of the corn to the clucking hens and walked to meet them, tilting her sunbonneted head and smiling to let them all see she wasn't worried about Pat.

Nate Turner reined his horse up and lifted his hat to Sally. His grizzled face was very grave. “Mawnin', Miz Stevens,” he greeted her. “Pat roundabout anywheres?”

“No, he isn't.” Sally clasped her hands in front of her and waited. All four men were heavily armed and looked unwontedly serious. She thought things must have come to some sort of a showdown between Eustis Harlow and the other element in the Valley and that these men were seeking Pat for leadership in this new crisis as they always had in the past.

“I reckon Ezra's not here either?” Turner asked.

“No.”

“We're wonderin if you know anything about Pat brealdn' Ezra outta jail last night?”

“Why, yes,” Sally said gladly. “Wasn't it wonderful the way he worked it? He came home for his guns first, and I haven't seen either of them since. But I'm not worried about them. I know those two can always take care of themselves.”

“Nobody knowed for sure it was Pat that got him out,” Nate Turner explained carefully while the others sat on their horses and listened and watched her.

“Who else did you think would have the nerve to do a thing like that?” Sally demanded proudly.

Turner shifted in the saddle and glanced back uneasily at the others. He muttered, “Yes'm, that's the way it looked to us too, but it seemed like a good idea to make sure an' not go off half-cocked.”

“What are you talking about?” Sally's voice became sharp. “You act like you blame Pat for doing it. What else did you
expect
him to do? Leave Ezra in jail? Did you think he would really knuckle down to a man like Mr. Harlow?”

“Well, no'm. I reckon that was mighty like Pat Stevens awright. But it sure makes things mighty danged bad …”

“What
are
you talking about?” Sally interrupted him fiercely. “Why does it make things bad? Do you think it would have been better if Pat let Ezra rot in jail?”

“Would've been better for Ethan and Nancy Page, and Jake Munort, and Miz Kincaid,” Pike Gilroy blurted out bitterly from his saddle behind Nate Turner.

Sally closed her eyes for a moment. She didn't know what he meant. She opened them slowly and echoed in complete bewilderment, “The Pages and Jake Munort and Mrs. Kincaid? What have
they
got to do with all of this?”

“Plenty,” said Turner heavily. “We hate like thunder to tell you, Miz Stevens, but I reckon you better hear it from Pat's friends than from someone else. It sure looks like Ezra done went plumb crazy an' murdered all four of 'em in cold blood last night after Pat turned him loose from jail.”

Sally reeled back from the shocking impact of his words. She said, “Oh, no!” and put both hands up to her face. “Not Ezra!” she cried out. “There's some terrible mistake. There
must
be.”

“I'm afraid there ain't,” said Turner grimly. “There's witnesses to every one of the killin's. I ain't sayin' anybody would believe the six-year-old Page boy, nor mebby yet Jose that heard ol' Jake sayin' it was Ezra while he was dying; but there's the Kincaid boy too. He seen Ezra just like the rest of 'em. Add 'em all three together and they spell out Ezra sure as yo're alive.”

“They
saw
Ezra do it?”

“That's right.”

“But where was Pat when it happened? Even if Ezra went crazy somehow,
what was Vat doing?”

“That's what we was hopin' you could tell us, Ma'm.” Nate Turner's voice was suddenly very gentle.

“You don't think he … nobody thinks
Fat
was there or had anything to do with it?” Sally cried hysterically.

“He turned Ezra out of jail,” said Arnold Potter grimly. “Seems like that sorta makes him responsible along with Ezra.”

“You see, Ma'm,” said Turner apologetically, “all of us know Ezra ain't none too bright. I reckon there's a lot of folks been thinking he might go off like this some day, but we all sorta trusted Pat to hold him down. They was such good-friends an' all.”

“We're wastin' time here,” put in Pike Gilroy angrily. “We got to locate Ezra 'fore he sneaks up behind somebody else an' kills 'em.”

Turner said gruffly, “We're mighty sorry, Miz Stevens. If Pat was to find Ezra an' put him outta the way first I reckon it'd be best all the way 'round. That'd sorta keep folks from blaming him so much.” He wheeled his horse about and the four men galloped away.

Sally stood very still with the sun in her face and watched them go. She was too numbed by the terrible news to really understand its full import. She only knew that Pat was in dreadful trouble and that she could do nothing to help him. Nothing.

12

Ezra had a huge sledge-hammer and was swinging it in mighty blows above his head, bringing it crashing down upon Pat's skull. He was bared to the waist and sweat dripped off his huge torso as he swung the hammer mightily. His scarred, red-whiskered face was split in a mighty grin and he laughed resoundingly each time he swung the heavy sledge downward.

Pat was lying on his back watching him with awed fascination. He tried to close his eyes each time he saw the hammer coming down, but his eyelids seemed to be held open as though by some mechanical device. It was horrible to lie there and watch Ezra swing the sledge above his head, and he wondered vaguely why the force of the blows didn't smash his head wide open instead of just bouncing off each time.

Another and more insistent pounding drew his attention away from Ezra. It was on the side of his head just behind his right ear. He rolled his eyes in that direction and saw Sam Sloan kneeling beside him with a cold chisel and a small carpenter's hammer. Sam's face was gravely expressionless as he worked. He seemed intent on chiseling away a portion of Pat's head and he refused to meet the eyes of his old friend as he pounded away.

It was a hell of a way for Sam and Ezra to be treating him, Pat thought angrily. He tried to yell at Sam to let up, but no sound came out of his mouth when he opened it. He had a funny feeling, like he was already dead. But it wouldn't hurt if he was dead. So he must still be alive. But he couldn't close his eyes and he couldn't move any portion of his body, and both his old friends pounded away as though they didn't know he could feel it.

This kept on for a long time. Ezra stood on wide-spread feet and swung his heavy weapon in a slow, relentless rhythm. Each time it bounced off Pat's head, Ezra caught it on the back swing and brought it up and over his head and down again with a ferocious grunt, and then he laughed exultantly.