Hardcase (19 page)

“You might be sorry too,” Ernie said tonelessly. “There's bars on that window.”

“I didn't mean that kind of sorry. I mean you'll be sorry afterward if you don't listen.”

Ernie looked at him carefully, quizzically, his fear slowly fading. Then he shook his head. “Man, I give up,” he said softly. “Why in hell didn't you surrender last night and save us the trouble of chasin' you instead of comin' here and doin' it?”

“I ain't surrenderin',” Dave said quietly. “After we talk you'll know why.”

Ernie slowly, experimentally drew his gun. Nothing happened. He pulled a chair toward him, locked the door, then sat down, his glance never leaving Dave. Ernie thought: This is it. I wonder if I'll get him when it breaks.

Ernie said with a confidence he didn't feel, “It better be good. Start off.”

“I was lyin' on that gallery last night when you come to the Bib M,” Dave said slowly. “I heard you say to Miss McFee that you didn't reckon I shot Sholto.”

“I don't,” Ernie said. He was interested now.

“And you don't reckon McFee did, either.”

“No. It don't hold water, not a drop.”

“You're right,” Dave said, watching him. “We didn't. I saw the shot. It come from the roof of Badey's store.”

Ernie forgot his fear now, forgot who he was talking to. He said, “I knew it! See who it was?”

“No. If I had of I'd of killed him,” Dave said quietly. “I left town with a posse on my neck. You know that.”

“And you want me to work on that?” Ernie said cautiously. “Hell, man, it could be anyone in town.”

“It could be five men,” Dave said. “Just five men.”

Ernie came up straight in his chair, suddenly alert. “How do you figure that?”

“Remember when you and Thornton and Beal followed Carol McFee out to the Bib M, hopin' to trap us?” Ernie nodded, and he went on: “Remember, she was just openin' a letter when you broke in?”

Ernie scowled and shook his head. “No.”

“She was. She hadn't read it. She laid it on the table and took you around the house. After you'd gone she looked for the letter. It was gone, stole.”

“What was in it?” Ernie asked swiftly.

“That letter,” Dave said slowly, “was from McFee. We'd been there earlier and left it with Lily Sholto.” He paused, watching Ernie. “It said that we'd bring Sholto in to the sheriff's office the night after next. Last night, that was. We did. And Sholto was shot.”

Ernie was listening carefully, hanging on every word. Dave raised his left hand, spread the fingers, then started ticking off each finger as he said, “There was you, Beal, Lacey Thornton, and Maitland. Four men. One of you killed Sholto.”

Ernie said swiftly, “You think I did. That's why you come.”

“I
know
you didn't. That's why I'm here.”

Ernie felt a sudden flush of pleasure, but his face didn't show it. He scowled and rubbed his jaw. “Then it was a grudge killin' against Sholto. It had nothin' to do with the Three Rivers outfit, because Wallace has an alibi.”

Dave smiled thinly. “Whoever killed Sholto
is
the Three Rivers outfit.”

Ernie stared at him blankly, then shook his head. “No. Wallace is Three Rivers.”

Dave, talking in a steady voice, told Ernie some things then that was like lighting a lamp in a dark room. He started out with his conversation with Carol, with the supposition that the deed was forged. Then he skipped to Wallace and told of what he knew of him. Then he explained the kidnaping of Sholto and how Wallace refused to buy Sholto back, once McFee was in jail on suspicion of Sholto's murder. Slowly, point by point, he built up the case against Wallace, finally proving that Wallace was the only one who stood to gain by Sholto's death. And then, he said, the night Sholto was killed Wallace and his crew had an alibi. Someone unknown, the man behind Three Rivers, was the killer. Nobody else could have been.

He paused a moment, letting that sink in. Presently Ernie said, “It holds water. It makes sense. But have you got proof?”

“No, but I'll get it.”

“How?”

Dave said quietly, arrogantly, “I'll have your killer, the man behind Wallace, in a week. I'll have him in jail for you.”

This was too much for Ernie. He sneered openly. “You've made brags in your life, Coyle. Some you've backed up. You can't back that one up.”

“Not alone,” Dave said quietly. “I can if you'll help me.”

“Me?” Ernie said blankly. “But hell, I'm a deputy s'posed to be huntin' you!”

“You're also sworn to uphold the law,” Dave pointed out. “Or are you scared of me?”

“I'm talkin' to you, ain't I?” Ernie said hotly.

Dave nodded. “You are. You're talkin' to me without shoutin', without threatenin' me, without braggin', and without pokin' a gun in my face. Maybe it's because we both hate murder that you're listenin'. But now I'm wonderin' somethin'.”

“What?” Ernie asked belligerently.

“If you don't love a tin badge more'n you hate murder.”

Ernie felt himself getting mad, but when he looked at Dave Coyle, at that quiet alert face, not jeering, he paused. And slowly a feeling of shame came over him. Dave Coyle had touched him where it hurt. He had told what seemed to be the truth, but it was not the truth. To prove that to himself Ernie only had to think of Lily Sholto. He'd sell his badge for a drink if he could get Sholto's killer.

He said quietly, “I'm going to prove you a liar.”

“You'll help me? Even if it means breakin' the law?”

Ernie's honest face was sober now. “I will. I'll do anything short of murder.”

“You're passin' up seven thousands dollars' reward.”

“I ain't a bounty hunter,” Ernie said grimly. “You prove to me you're more'n a cheap outlaw, and I'll forget that.”

They didn't shake hands on it because they didn't need to. Dave's doubt of Ernie was far more binding than a mere handshake, and Ernie's skepticism of Dave was equally binding. Their pride had done that.

Ernie put down his gun on the table as a token of his honesty, tilted his chair back, and said, “Since we're partners, let's have it. What do you aim to do first?”

Dave leaned back against the wall, his forehead creased in a scowl. “See if I figure right, Ernie. The way I look at it, here's the way it stands. Wallace—and whoever's behind him—don't have to make another move. They're set. All they got to do is let the law take care of McFee. That right?”

Ernie nodded.

“Then it's up to us to make 'em move.”

Ernie grunted. “How?”

“Steal the forged deed.”

Ernie's head yanked up, and his tired eyes opened wide. He didn't say anything for a long moment, and then he murmured, “That'll make 'em move, all right. But how—” His voice died. He was looking at Dave.

Dave's head had slowly turned toward the window, as if he were listening. There was a faint, unnoticeable rustling of brush outside the window, and then Dave exploded. His hand had been near Ernie's hat. He picked it up, and in one fluid motion he threw it at the lamp, at the same time rolling off the cot onto the floor.

The lamp winked out; he hit the floor, and on the heel of his fall came the blasting, deafening roar of a shotgun through the window, then a swift pounding of feet toward the alley.

Even as the buckshot was still rolling about the room, the plaster above the bed still sifting down, Dave had come over to Ernie, who had reared out of his chair.

“You hurt, Ernie?”

“N-no.”

“Listen. Make it quick. Lead that gang in the cell block outside before they come in here! Find out which of those four men is in town. Meet me at the feed stable!”

There was the pounding of feet behind the door, and Dave dodged against the wall. Ernie yanked the door open and faced the excited guards.

“Outside!” Ernie bawled. “Somebody took a greener to me! Split up and head for the alley!”

He led the way, pounding out of the sheriff's office. The five guards beat their way back between the buildings. Dave followed on their heels and then walked swiftly and unconcernedly down the street toward the darkened feed stable.

Back in the alley both groups met, and then Ernie began to swear blisteringly. It was as black as the bottom of a well, and the bushwhacker was gone.

“What happened, Ernie?” one man asked.

“Happened?” Ernie raged. “Why, I was lyin' on the cot, too damn tired to go to bed. I heard somethin' outside, reared up, saw somethin' move behind them bars, threw my hat at the lamp, and ducked. Then this greener cut loose through the window!”

“Dave Coyle,” one of the guards said bitterly. “That sounds like him.”

Ernie was about to protest, and then he thought he'd better start allaying suspicions right now. “It's likely,” he growled. “That damn little whelp!”

He judged he had given Dave enough time to get out now, so after futilely beating the alley for five minutes he ordered the guards back to the cell block. What few people were still up were collected in front of the jail, but he ordered them home. Beal, he thought, would be down soon, and he didn't want to listen to him any more. He remembered what Dave had told him, so he dragged his weary bones out in the street again.

At the hotel he found that Senator Maitland was registered. He asked if Lacey Thornton was in town, and Bitterman said he wasn't here. Beal was here, of course, and so was he, the fourth man.

But Ernie didn't want to pass up any chances. He started the rounds of the three saloons still open, idly inquiring if Lacey Thornton was upstairs anywhere. Two of them said no.

At King's Keno Parlor the first sight that met his eyes was Wallace standing at the bar drinking with a handsome frock-coated man who wore buckskin gloves. With a new suspicion simmering inside him, Ernie walked up to the bar and said bluntly, “I'm gettin' an alibi from everybody in town, Wallace. Where was you when that greener went off?”

Wallace grinned and looked at the barkeep. “Where was I, Tim?”

“Right here,” Tim King said. “Him and his friend, both.”

“Gimme a drink,” Ernie said in disgust.

Wallace's companion came over on Ernie's other side. “Has it occurred to you that Dave Coyle might be the man you're lookin' for?” he asked pleasantly.

Ernie's face showed only a weary disinterest. “Hell, yes, it's occurred to me. I suppose it was.”

He let it ride that way, wondering who the man was, and drank his drink. When he was finished Wallace said, “Well, Ernie, I'm movin' in on the Bib M tomorrow. You might's well tell Beal.”

“You are?” Ernie asked, surprise in his voice.

“I've got the legal right,” Wallace said calmly. “I've waited two weeks longer than the deed called for. McFee's case against me is finished, I think, since he tried to kill my witness and will hang for it. Any reason I have to wait?”

“Why—don't reckon,” Ernie admitted.

“Well, I want to make it legal. Tell Beal for me. You can tell Miss McFee too.”

“Sure.” Ernie said good night, went back to the gambling tables and heard other alibis, and then went out, heading for the feed stable. The news from Wallace wasn't so good. He wondered what Dave would say to that.

He came up the alley to the corral behind the feed barn and was walking toward the driveway when a voice said beside him, “Well?”

It was Dave. Ernie said, “Beal's in town; Maitland's at the hotel; I'm in town—and Wallace was talking with a stranger when it happened.”

“What stranger?”

“Good-lookin', frock coat, yaller gloves, very fancy. Told me you likely did it.”

That would be Will Usher, Dave thought. So Will had thrown in with Wallace now, had he? Dave smiled faintly in the dark. Leave it to Will to smell money and rub elbows with it.

Ernie said wearily, “That mean anything to you? Three of the four was here.”

“I dunno,” Dave said.

“Then does this mean anything to you?” Ernie asked gloomily. “Wallace is movin' into the Bib M tomorrow.”

For a moment there was silence. Ernie heard what sounded to him like the soft, noiseless laugh of his companion.

“What's funny?” he asked.

“Why, nothin',” Dave said. “Only that deed is as good as stole right now. Listen.” And he began to talk, and Ernie listened—listened long and carefully—and was dumfounded at what he heard.

XVIII

Sheriff Beal came into the office next morning brisk and beaming, his cherub's face still pink from his morning's shave. He found Ernie in the swivel chair, feet cocked on the desk, hands behind his head.

“Well, well,” Beal said briskly. “They tell me you were shot at last night, Ernie.”

“Yeah,” Ernie said sourly. “It ain't any fun. Where was you?”

“In bed.”

“So you don't come down to see about it unless I'm dead, eh?”

Beal looked carefully at him. “Boy, you got up on the wrong side of the bed this mornin'.”

“Sure I did—and stepped right into a pound of buckshot and plaster,” Ernie said sourly. He had made no move to get out of Beal's chair, in itself a sign of revolt. Beal sensed something and leaned on the desk.

“What's the matter with you, Ernie?”

“I'm fed up,” Ernie said grimly. “I been chasin' that damn Coyle from hell to breakfast, and all I got out of it was dust in my eyes. I get laughed at and cussed at, just because I don't believe fairy stories about who killed Sholto. Then I git shot at.” He looked at Beal. “And you ask me what's the matter. Ain't it enough?”

Beal laughed and said, “Boy, our job's done. In a week McFee's trial will be over, and we'll be rid of this mess.”