Play a Lone Hand (6 page)

Giff was called then and took the chair in front of the table facing Arnold. This was the man, he remembered, who notarized Kearie's perjured affidavits of publication according to Fiske. He was a long-jawed, long-faced, old man, dirty and slack-eyed, and his air of petty authority did not become him.

Once Giff had given his name, his occupation as land office packer, his age as thirty, he was asked to tell what had happened last night. Talking easily he told about stopping on Henty's corner to watch Albers' progress from the saloon. The man was so drunk, he said, that he needed help, and he gave it to him. Halfway down the alley they heard men running toward them. No, he didn't recognize any of them, Albers did, though, and began to run.

“Albert did?” Arnold cut in. “How do you know that?”

Giff made the plunge. “From what he said.”

“And what was that?”

“He said, ‘Help me. Grady's after me,'” Giff lied calmly.

There was a long moment of utter silence during which Giff looked levelly at Arnold. He saw Arnold's brief frightened glance at Gus Traff, and then the J.P. swiveled his glance back to him. It was Edwards, however, who found his voice first.

“Do you know any Grady here, Dixon? Do you know who he was talking about?”

“No.”

“Go on,” Arnold said hurriedly. “Then what happened?”

“We ran, and then there were two shots. Albers fell. I didn't have a gun and there was no way I could help him, so I ran for the head of the alley. They were waiting for me there as I turned into the street.”

“What happened?”

“I got beat up and kicked,” Giff said thinly.

Arnold's next question was asked offhandedly, reluctantly, “Have you any idea who did it?”

“Only the name of the man who ordered it done,” Giff said calmly.

“How do you know that?” Arnold pounced on him.

“From what I heard them say.”

Arnold looked pleadingly at Edwards and then away. He didn't want to ask the next question, but he had to. “What did they say?”

“One said,' That him?' and the other said, ‘He's the one Gus said.' That's all I remember because someone kicked me in the head then.”

Again there was a long and ominous silence, and then Sheriff Edwards said, “Judge, I'd suggest we put this witness under oath. We've been too informal by the looks of things.”

Arnold looked at him blankly, and then Edwards' intent seemed to dawn on him. He looked wrathfully at Giff, opened a drawer in his desk, took a Bible from it and then said sternly, “Stand up!”

Giff did, and was sworn in, then sat down. Arnold looked questioningly at Edwards, who was watching Giff. Edwards said, “Go back to what Albers said in the alley. What did he?”

Giff knew he'd been caught and he didn't care much, for he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Just what that was he didn't frame in words, but he had intended it as a parting shot at Sebree and Traff. His listeners could read into it anything they wished, but the facts which he was retracting were nevertheless true, and he hoped they knew it.

He said indifferently, “Albers said, ‘No. No, I didn't!'”

“Know what he meant?” Edwards prodded gently.

“No.”

“Now go back to the attack on you. Did you hear any talk while you were being beat up?”

“None.”

“Your witness, Judge,” Edwards said dryly.

There was a crash of talk in the room then, and Arnold pounded the table for silence. The talk subsided, and Judge Arnold turned his attention to Giff; he had his mouth open to speak when someone in the rear of the room said loudly, “If it please your honor.”

The voice was Welling's, Giff knew without turning to look. Arnold's gaze lifted, and Giff saw the bitter dislike in it as Arnold asked sourly, “What is it?”

“On behalf of the Land Office I would like to disclaim any responsibility for Dixon's testimony. He was instructed to cooperate with the county officials in every way.”

Arnold said coldly, “Is that all?”

“Yes, your honor.” Welling's tone was fawning, respectful, and a soft murmur of amused laughter came from the back of the room. Even Arnold smiled.

Then his face altered to sternness again, and he returned his glance to Giff, “I don't suppose there's anything I can do to you since you told the truth under oath. But I warn you, you're headed for trouble. Murder is a serious business.”

“Beginning when?” Giff asked disinterestedly.

“Step down!” Arnold ordered angrily.

“Just a minute,” a voice put in. It was Gus Traff's and he was looking at Arnold. “Is a juryman allowed to question a witness?”

“Of course,” Arnold said. “We're only trying to get at the truth, no matter how.”

Traff looked at Giff and said slowly, “You might tell the real reason you're so anxious to involve Mr. Sebree and me in trouble—any kind of trouble.”

He didn't wait for Giff to answer, but addressed Arnold. “He walked into Burton's saddle shop yesterday, claimed he was working for Torreon, and took his saddle that he'd sold Burton. He told Burton Sebree would pay him for it.” Now he looked levelly at Giff and said, “Mr. Sebree never saw him before. He never promised him a job, and never told him to pick up his saddle from Burton. Know what I think?”

He was looking at Arnold now, and Arnold said, “What?”

“I think he used a saddle tramp's gall to steal back his saddle. I think he's trying to blacken Mr. Sebree's character now, beforehand, so that when Mr. Sebree turns the saddle stealing over to the sheriff's office, he can point to his own lying evidence here as proof that Mr. Sebree is a liar and that his word is not to be trusted.”

Arnold slowly turned his head to look at Giff. “What have you got to say to that?”

“Nothing you'd listen to,” Giff said.

Arnold glared at him a moment, then said, “Step down.”

Giff rose, his glance falling briefly on Gus Traff. Traff's eyes met his, and they held a look of sleepy malice, of unworried patience and of triumph. Instead of taking his seat again beside Cass, Giff started on through the room toward the doorway into the store.

“Oh, Dixon.”

It was the sheriff's voice, and Giff halted.

“I'd like for you to stay around town until we get this saddle business straightened out,” Edwards said.

Giff wheeled and went out. He heard someone rise and follow him, but he did not turn to see who it was. He was descending the steps when he heard a voice say sharply from behind him, “Wait, Dixon.”

He halted, and waited for the agent's approach. The anger in Welling's face was evident as he hauled up and regarded Giff.

“I want to talk to you.”

“You are.”

“Not here.”

“What's the matter with the saloon?” Giff asked with open malice. “That's where you talk best.”

Welling didn't answer, only wheeled and headed downstreet toward the Plains Bar four doors down. Giff followed at his elbow, and they went into the saloon together. A few riders were conversing at the bar, and they looked incuriously at the pair as they entered and took a front corner table.

Defiantly Welling caught the eye of the bartender, called, “Whiskey please,” and then sat back in his chair and waited for the bottle and glasses to be brought. Giff toed a chair out and sat down.

Welling had his drink, probably the morning's first because he shuddered a little, then folded his hands on the table, pursed his lips, and settled his stern glance on Giff.

“You made a holy show out of yourself this morning, didn't you?”

Giff only shrugged indifferently.

“Who gave you authority to speak up with that cock and bull story?”

Giff raised his hand and touched his bruised face. “This.”

Welling said angrily, “I would like to remind you again that you were hired as a packer and guide only.”

“Was I hired to get kicked silly in a dark alley?”

“That was bad luck, but it doesn't change what I said.”

“You say too much and you say it in the wrong places,” Giff said flatly. “You were here yesterday afternoon bragging about breaking open this case as soon as you had seen a man. All right. Albers is dead.”

“You're talking without knowing any facts of the case,” Welling said stiffly.

“I know all the facts. Fiske told me.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Look,” he said flatly. “What did you haul me in here for—to spank me or to fire me? Which is it?”

“To fire you,” Welling said levelly.

“Have you talked with Fiske?” Giff asked slowly.

“What about? Firing you? No, that's my own decision.”

Giff looked at him wonderingly. Apparently, Fiske had not told him of his resignation. There was something laughable in Welling's pomposity, but also there was something strange in his words. Why was Welling so anxious to get rid of him?

He asked bluntly, “Tell me something, Welling. Answer it straight. Do you want to prove this land swindle against Sebree and Deyo?”

Welling's florid face darkened. “If there is a swindle, yes.”

“You don't believe there is?”

“I don't know. There's a dignified way of going about finding out. It has nothing to do with lying under oath and calling names carelessly and baiting influential people, though.”

“That's too rough?” Giff asked.

“For a representative of the government, yes. That's why I think it's better for you to find some other work. I'll pay Burton for the saddle you took. I think that ought to square accounts and more between us, don't you?”

Giff heard the saloon door open behind him. He was aware that someone was approaching behind him, and he turned. Gus Traff stood beside him. There was no sleepy malice in Traff's eyes now. He didn't bother to look at Welling, who remained seated, but he regarded Giff with a cold and savage calm.

“I think you're a Sunday man,” Traff said coldly. “I don't think you've got the guts to say to my face what you said at the hearing.”

Giff's anger was swift and immediate. He rose, reached out, grabbed Welling's bottle of whiskey by its neck, and in a sweeping backhanded motion picked it up from the table and clouted Traff on the side of the jaw. Traff did not even stagger, he simply fell into the adjoining table and made no effort to catch himself as the table legs buckled and caved under him. He rolled over on his side and lay motionless, unconscious.

Welling rose with such haste that his chair tipped over backward. For a brief moment, fright was plain on his loose face. Then he said, “You damn fool! You've probably killed him.”

“I meant to.”

Giff wheeled and walked out of the saloon, crossed the plankwalk, ducked under the tie rail and headed across the street toward the livery. He knew now that by hitting Traff he had pushed himself toward a final, irrevocable decision.

At the livery office Cass Murray was seated at his desk. He had one foot atop it tying the lace of his farmer's shoe. At sight of Giff, he shook his head in mute wonder. “Well, after that speech to Arnold you won't be needing any horses, will you?”

“I'll need something else first,” Giff said. “Have you got a gun?”

Cass lowered his leg, never taking his glance from Giff's face. “Traff or Welling?”

“If it was Welling I would have asked for a stable broom,” Giff said.

Cass did not smile. “If it's Traff, you've made a mistake.”

“It's my own.”

Cass regarded him a silent moment, then said, “You got any Indian in you?”

“About the gun,” Giff reminded him.

“Yeah, I got one.” Cass reached down and pulled out the lower drawer from which he took an ancient Colt's .44 holstered in a scuffed and scarred shell belt. He laid it on the desk top and asked, “Still working for Welling?”

“He says not,” Giff said. He belted on the gun, nodded his thanks, then started for the door. Suddenly, he halted and turned to Cass, his dark face sober. “What's a Sunday man, Cass?”

“He's a man that's a real man only one day of the week, on Sunday. The rest of the week he isn't any man at all. Why?”

The slow smile that came to Dixon's face was not pleasant. He looked thoughtfully at Cass, said, “No reason,” and walked out.

Cass sat a moment after Giff had gone, then, curiosity prodding him, he rose and went out to the street and looked up it. He saw Dixon mount the hotel steps, then vanish.
What's eating him?
Cass wondered.

His attention was attracted to a pair of men hurrying toward the Plains Bar. A third man came out of it on the run, heading for the hotel. It took Cass a few seconds to connect Dixon's strange request for a gun with the saloon across the street; when he did, he moved out into the street and headed unhurriedly for the Plains Bar.

Immediately he entered he saw the crowd of men collected around a figure on the floor. Cass elbowed his way inside the circle and saw Gus Traff stretched out amid the wreckage of a broken table and a smashed chair. Traff was unconscious, and kneeling beside him was a Torreon rider who now looked up in bafflement at another Torreon rider beside him. “It could be broke,” the kneeling man said.

Cass felt a solid pleasure at the sight of Traff in this condition and he asked his neighbor, “What happened to him?”

“He got belted with a full bottle of whiskey by that-there packer for the special agent.”

Bravo
, Cass thought, and then he sighed.
Not to Traff and not that way
, he amended glumly. The bartender broke through the circle, now holding a glass pitcher filled with water. Phlegmatically he poured it on Traff's face and chest. When Traff did not move, the bartender said, “Sure he ain't dead?”

The kneeling puncher said sharply, “Hell, can't you see his chest move? He's breathing.” Again the puncher felt gingerly along Traff's right jaw, which was already swollen and beginning to flush.