Hardcase (24 page)

She felt her knees go weak as she turned to look at him again. Twenty thousand dollars on his head, the whole of the county hunting him, and he was peacefully asleep on a bed in the hotel across the street from the sheriff's office!

And then Carol had a thought that warmed her and made her feel important again. He trusted her enough to come to her when he needed shelter and rest.

Carol sat down then in the chair. She wasn't going to waken him. He was probably exhausted. She sat in the chair still as a mouse for two hours, as the sun heeled over and the room grew dark.

She was sitting there in a kind of dreamy trance when Dave's voice startled her.

“How long you been here?”

Carol started and then looked at him. He was propped up on his elbows, grinning at her.

“Hours,” Carol said. “Dave, why do you take the risk?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Dave said. He got up, stretched, yawned, and went over to the washstand, poured out a basin of water, washed his face, dried it, ran a hand through his unruly black hair, then came and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling out a sack of tobacco.

Carol said, calmly as she could, “Do you know there's a twenty-thousand-dollar reward on your head?”

Dave lighted the cigarette and said, “Is that all? Wallace is a piker.”

“Oh, Dave!” Carol moaned. “You've done enough for us! Can't you get out of the country?”

Dave grinned around his cigarette. There was none of the insolence in his face now that Carol had seen before. He looked friendly. He reached in his shirt pocket, brought out a paper, and held it in his hand. “Here's the deed.”

“You shouldn't have done it, Dave,” Carol said.

“Aren't you glad?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Sorry you cussed me out the other night?”

Carol flushed a little. “I—I am. Dreadfully sorry.”

Dave grinned and looked at the deed. “What are you goin' to do with it?”

“Destroy it, shouldn't I?”

Dave shook his head and laid the deed on the bed. “I been figurin',” he said slowly and looked levelly at Carol. “You think your dad will be acquitted?”

He had said casually, almost brutally, the thing that Carol had not even dared to ask herself these past few days. But now that he had framed the question Carol knew that she had already answered it in her mind. It was settled. She said softly, hopelessly, “No, I don't.”

“Neither do I,” Dave said. “So maybe I better tell you what I been thinkin'.”

“You aren't going to try to break him out of jail!” Carol said swiftly, alarm in her voice. “Dave, it won't work again! Don't crowd your luck!”

“Listen to me,” Dave said. He picked up the deed and held it in front of him. “That deed will get your dad out of jail,” he said slowly.

Carol stared at him, not understanding. “But—but he's in for murder, Dave.”

“Forget that,” Dave said. “I know what I'm talkin' about. I've found out some things. You haven't got ten thousand dollars to your name, have you, Carol?”

“Ten thousand? No,” Carol said blankly.

“Has Senator Maitland?”

“No, he's poor.”

“Ten thousand dollars will get your dad out of jail,” Dave said, watching her.

“How?”

“Ernie See can be bought,” Dave lied slowly. “For ten thousand dollars Ernie See will let your dad out of jail, give him a fast horse, and start him on his way to Mexico.”

“Dave!” Carol said softly. She looked searchingly at him, trying to get a clue to his thoughts. Then she said, “How do you know?”

“Every man has his price,” Dave said cynically. “I found out his. It's ten thousand dollars.”

Carol looked wonderingly at him. “But what would Dad do in Mexico—providing he could get there?”

“What'll he do dead?” Dave asked brutally.

Carol shuddered. Dave had put it bluntly enough; it was either Mexico or the hang noose.

She said, “That's true. He should go. But where will we get ten thousand dollars?”

Dave, who had been holding the deed in front of him, simply waved it once and said nothing.

Carol, understanding, said swiftly, “You'll sell the deed back to the Three Rivers?”

“Not to Wallace himself. I don't trust him. I'm goin' to sell it back to the man behind Wallace for ten thousand dollars.”

Carol felt an excitement pounding through her, and then it was dampened. “But do you know who it is?”

Dave grinned. “I don't. But I'll tell you how I can find out. You remember that night at your spread when you told me of the letter bein' stole?”

“Yes, yes!”

“I'll send a letter to each of those men who could have stole the letter. I can't send one to Will Usher because he's dead. I won't send one to Ernie See because I've found out he can't be the one. But I'll send a note to Sheriff Beal and one to Lacey Thornton.” He paused. “I'll also send one to Senator Maitland.”

“But—” Carol began and then smiled. What difference did it make if Uncle Dan got one? He'd just be bewildered and wouldn't understand.

“What will you say in the notes?”

“I'll say the same thing in all of them,” Dave continued. “It will read like this: ‘If you want the deed to the Bib M, follow these directions. Get ten thousand dollars in bank notes. At seven o'clock tonight ride south out of Yellow Jacket three miles until you come to the big cottonwood by the ford. There will be a fire burning there. Dump out your bank notes by the fire, so I can see them. Then walk twenty feet south, lift the flat rock, and the deed will be under it. If your bank notes are just paper you will be shot by me. If they are really bank notes you can ride off unharmed.' I'll sign my own name.”

Carol nodded, then said, “But what if it's Sheriff Beal and he brings men with him?”

“Seven o'clock is just after dark. There's a butte behind the cottonwood. On top of it I can see whether one man comes or a dozen. If it's more than one I grab the deed and run. If it's one I stay there.” He grinned. “It can't fail.”

Carol thought a moment, then said bitterly, “Whoever it is, they'll send a messenger. We'll never know who is behind Tate Wallace and the Three Rivers outfit.”

Dave shrugged carelessly. “We got to give that up. We don't care who it is, just so your dad goes free.”

“That's true. That's all that matters. Only—we'll never know.”

It was almost dark in the room now. Dave said, “You got any paper and a pen?”

“Are you going to write the letters?”

Dave nodded. “You go downstairs. It's almost suppertime. Leave me here. When you come back there'll be four letters for you to mail. Take them out and mail them.”

“Four?” Carol asked. “Who is the fourth one to?”

Dave smiled faintly. “It's a man. He's got nothin' to do with this. His name is—let's see.” He scratched his head. “George Bemis. He's comin' to town soon. I'll mark his letter ‘Hold till called for.' You mail 'em all right after supper.”

Carol nodded. “And when will Dad make his escape?”

“Two nights from now,” Dave said.

Carol stood up and got the paper and pen and envelopes. Dave pulled the curtain, and she lighted the lamp. Then she stood by the desk, and Dave pulled the chair over.

“Be careful, Dave,” she said softly. “Be awfully careful.” She hesitated, then said passionately, “Oh, Dave, are you sure it will work?”

“Why won't it?” Dave asked absently.

His very indifference encouraged Carol. She walked to the door and said, “You'll be careful?”

Dave didn't look up. He had already started to write, and still writing, he said “If you tell anyone about this—anyone, understand—your dad will hang.”

“Who would I tell?” Carol asked resentfully.

Dave didn't even answer her. He was writing. She closed and locked the door and went downstairs, feeling a little angry that Dave thought she'd tell. She'd show him.

XXII

By six o'clock the next evening Dave's stolen horse was tied to a small cedar in the dry wash behind Alamo Butte. The road stretching across the sage flats to Yellow Jacket was empty. Dave, standing under the cottonwood, shivered a little in the chill air, for when the sun went down now the nights were immediately cool. Soon winter would be on them, and he would drift down into Mexico again, aimless and footloose, following the sun. For some reason that thought didn't cheer him up now.

He set about gathering brush and stacking it under the big cottonwood. Fuel was scarce around here, and he worked fast to get a big pile. Finished, he hunted up a big flat rock, paced the ten feet south of the fire, and put the rock down. He did not place the deed under it; he kept that in his pocket.

Then he climbed the face of the butte. It was dusk now, but he could see for miles out on the flats on either side. Presently, riding the road from Yellow Jacket, he picked out a pin point of black that soon materialized into the shape of a horse and rider. Nothing moved anywhere else, except a scattering of cattle off toward the east.

Satisfied, he climbed down again. It was getting dark fast. He lighted the fire, picked up his rifle standing against the tree, then crossed the dry gulch, and bellied down amid the tall sage on its far bank.

Darkness came suddenly, and the night breeze fanned the flames. Dave listened, keening the wind for any sound of more than a single rider. But there were only the night sounds about him, the scurrying of a mouse in the brush, the deep tearing sounds of the bull bats as they cruised and dived for their food overhead.

And now there was the sound of a horse approaching. Dave lay there watching. He heard the horse stop, and he knew the man riding it was looking over the place before he ventured into the firelight.

Then Tate Wallace rode up to the cottonwood and dismounted. Dave knew it would be Wallace and was not surprised. He saw Wallace carrying a canvas sack, step over to the fire, kneel, and dump out fat, tight-packed sheaves of bank notes. One bunch, picked at random, he untied and fanned out, so that anyone watching from the darkness could see they were bank notes. He waited a moment, standing away from the fire and giving an observer time to look, then he walked over to the stone and lifted it.

Before he had time to curse Dave called easily, “Wait a minute, Wallace. I'll bring it over to you.”

Dave came down the bank and crossed the arroyo. Wallace was standing with his hands in the air.

“I haven't got a gun,” he said quietly.

“I didn't think you would have,” Dave said. “Come on over to the fire.”

They walked into the circle of firelight, and Dave reached in his shirt pocket and brought out the deed and receipt. He handed it to Wallace, who hesitatingly accepted it, then opened it to make sure it was the deed.

“I throwed in the sheet I tore from the county records too,” Dave said.

Wallace folded the deed and put it in his pocket. “Thanks.”

Dave said, “Don't thank me. Just write me a receipt for that deed.”

“Receipt?” Wallace asked curiously. “Why a receipt?”

Dave looked at the fire and said idly, “When you're in my business, Wallace, you learn to cover your back trail. I don't aim to get another reward plastered on me for stealin' a deed I ain't got. Write me a receipt, I say, so I can show it to the next tank-town sheriff that throws down on me for stealin' the Bib M deed.”

Wallace regarded him with speculation and then said, “You're gettin' pretty cagey, Dave.”

Dave looked up at him and answered simply, “Well, you know what I'm fightin'. I got to be.” He reached in his shirt pocket and brought out a slip of paper and a stub of pencil. “Write the date, the amount you paid, and the place—here at Alamo Butte.”

Wallace took the pencil and paper and scribbled a receipt. Dave took it, looked at it and nodded, and then pocketed it carelessly.

Wallace said, “Don't you want to look at the money?”

“No. I reckon the count is right,” Dave said easily. “You're smarter than that.”

“Can I go now?”

“Sure,” Dave said.

Wallace walked a few steps toward his horse, then paused, and looked back at Dave. Dave was still staring absently at the fire.

“Mind my talkin'?” Wallace asked.

Dave glanced up at him and shook his head. “Go ahead.”

Wallace's long lean face almost broke into a smile. “You said something about tank-town sheriffs. You driftin'?”

“That's right.” Dave almost grinned too. “Mind tellin' me who's been packin' you, Wallace?”

Wallace only smiled and shook his head.

Dave shrugged and yawned. “Well, I don't give a damn,” he said quietly. “It's a nice, smooth job, Wallace. You're considerably slicker than when you tried to cold-deck me in Dodge.”

“I'm older,” Wallace said.

“Yeah. Nothin' like practice, I reckon,” Dave said idly.

Wallace said, “You' sure raised hell with me for a while there.”

“I had to have money. Might's well get it from the gent that's makin' it, hadn't I?”

“Well, you got it,” Wallace said dryly. “And, mister, you sure earned it the hard way.”

Dave chuckled. “But I got it.”

“Well, so long.”

“So long,” Wallace said.

He and Dave faded out of the firelight at the same time, neither wholly trusting the other. Dave turned then and walked back toward his horse. He was whistling cheerfully, softly and off key.

It was all over now but the shouting.

He knew the man behind Wallace, the man who had shot Sholto, the man who had framed McFee—knew for dead certain. Tomorrow the rest of the world would know.

XXIII

Sheriff Harvey Beal always walked to work because his horse, which he seldom used, was stabled at the feed stable below the office. When he swung into the main street this morning he was struck by the absence of activity in the town. For a moment it puzzled him, and then he remembered that most of the stores were closed, the men out hunting Coyle. The street, usually busy at this early-morning hour, held mostly women and children and only a scattering of men. He could have counted on both hands the number of saddle horses, buckboards, and spring wagons at the tie rails.