The End of the Trail (11 page)

“You didn't duck under a table,” Pat reminded him sternly. They entered the hotel and went up the stairs. Pat got out their room-key and unlocked the door. He struck a match and went across the room to light the kerosene lamp. After he replaced the globe and turned the wick up, he turned back to see Dock still standing in the doorway, knitting his brow over a sheet of paper in his hands.

“This here was lying right inside the room, Dad. Like as if it'd been pushed under the door. It says …” His voice faltered queerly.

Pat crossed the room in two long strides and took the sheet of paper from his hands. Scrawled on it with the blunt tip of a soft-lead bullet was the warning:

“Git back tuh Powder Vally while yuh kin. Espeshuly thuh kid.”

It was unsigned.

Pat glanced up sharply at the unshaded window fronting on Fairplay's main street. He went across to the lamp swiftly and blew it out. He turned back to Dock and said gruffly, “Don't light that lamp again. You don't need it to get in bed. Lock the door on the inside as soon as I go out, and don't unlock it for anybody but me. No matter who they say they are. You've got your twenty-two target pistol, haven't you?”

“You bet, Dad.” Dock's voice was bursting with excitement. “You wanta borry it?”

“I want you to put it under your pillow,” Pat told him evenly. “If anybody tries to get in before I come back, shoot through the door. It's thin enough for even a twenty-two to go through an' the noise'll bring someone up here.”

“I'll sure do it. Will you be gone long?”

“Long enough to round up Sam an' Ezra and get 'em back here safe.” Pat paused on his way to the door with his hand on Dock's shoulder. “You're not afraid to stay here alone, Son?”

“With my pistol? Gosh no!”

Pat tightened his fingers on the boy's shoulder and then he went out. He took the key from the outside and put it in the lock so Dock could turn it, said gruffly, “Lock it right now,” and went down the hall.

10

Happy Jack was still in his place at the front of the bar when Pat Stevens strolled into the saloon a few minutes later. The proprietor smiled genially and made room for Pat beside him, remarking, “Got the boy tucked away safe in bed, I bet, and now you're out for some fun. What'll it be: Wine, women or dice?”

Pat said, “I'll stick to whisky, an' I'm a married man, an' I quit buckin' house games twenty years ago.”

Happy Jack laughed heartily and nodded to the bartender. As the man reached under the counter for a special bottle, Pat said hastily, “I'll buy you one this time.”

“Nothing doing,” said Happy Jack genially. “Liquor out of this bottle isn't for sale, an' I wouldn't let any friend of mine drink what we sell over the bar.” He lifted the bottle of bonded whisky and poured two drinks with a flourish.

Pat leaned forward with both elbows on the mahogany and carefully twirled the glass in front of him. In a low tone, he asked, “Know a feller named Bull Miller?”

“I know every man in Fairplay.”

“Know anything good about Miller?”

“I don't, and that's a fact.” Happy Jack emptied his glass and smacked his thick lips. “Good hard-rock man, they say, but can't hold down a job. Right now he's running the storage depot for a freighting outfit into Denver but they say he's boosting the new railroad hoping to get the job of station agent.”

“Workin' for the freight outfit?” Pat mused. “Must know a lot about gold shipments.”

“I reckon. But he's not going to hold that job long neither. Pulling for the railroad like he is that'll put his own boss out of business. He's no good,” Happy Jack went on in a rumbling undertone. “Do most anything for a crooked dollar, I guess.”

“I hear he favors a Bowie knife … from behind,” Pat murmured.

Happy Jack looked at him curiously. “Have you had a run-in with him?”

Pat drank his whisky. He said, “I figure maybe I will have,” nodded casually to his host and strolled back toward the dance-hall.

He stood in the doorway for a time, watching the dancing couples but he didn't see Ezra on the floor. He began studying the tables ranged around the walls, and presently saw two red heads very close together at a corner table. He circled the outer perimeter of the floor to their table and said, “Howdy, Ezra.”

The big, red-headed man looked up with a broad grin on his scarred face. He was seated opposite the tiny girl whose hair matched his own for crimson brilliance.

“Howdy, Pat. Wantcha tuh meet thuh purtiest gal west of thuh Mississippi. Miss Lily Lytell.”

The girl laughed huskily and looked up at Pat with sparkling eyes. “Your friend's been telling me all about you, Mr. Stevens. He claims you're
the
Pat Stevens from Powder Valley.” She had a thin white face with a lot of garish red on her lips. Her eyes were enormous and shadowed. She wasn't more than twenty, and she looked as though she hadn't eaten a square meal for a long time. A string of freckles across the bridge of her nose gave her a look of impudent childishness.

Pat nodded and took a chair between the two with his back to the dance floor. He frowned at the glasses in front of the pair, and asked, “What are you drinkin'?”

“They call this here drink a Rocky Mountain Side-Winder,” Ezra said proudly. “Smooth as spring water with a kick like thuh hind-end of a jackass.”

“That's what they call mine too,” Lily said pertly, “but it's only cold tea with some red coloring in it.”

Ezra looked across at her in one-eyed amazement. “Cold tea? Cost me two silver dollars every time yuh get uh fresh glass.”

“Sure. I get one of those dollars every time you buy me a glass. How do you think a girl makes a living in a dump like this?”

“My gosh! What d'yuh think of that, Pat?”

“I think it's cheap enough to get a girl like Lily to dance with you. Why don't you buy her another one an' get me a whisky while yo're about it?”

“I'll do 'er,” Ezra said. “But she don't hafta drink them less'n she likes 'em. I'd jest as lief give you thuh whole two dollars, Lily.”

She shook her head. “I'd get in trouble that way. We're not allowed to take any money from the men we dance with.”

Ezra leaned back and beckoned to a waiter, and Lily bent close to Pat to tell him laughingly, “I like your friend a lot. Are any of the stories he's been telling me the truth?”

“Probably not,” Pat warned her. He studied her face with frank admiration. “You're a funny kid to be workin' in a place like this. From the East?”

“Chicago,” she told him calmly. “It's not so bad here. These western men are easy to handle. None of them ever get too fresh.”

“How'd you come to get here from Chicago?”

“It's a long story.” She shrugged her thin bare shoulders. “I was broke when I got here last week and needed a stake before I could go on. This is the only way for a girl to earn one in Fairplay.”

“Go on; where from here?” Pat demanded. “Fairplay's the end of the line, seems like to me.”

She lifted her chin. “It was the end of the line for me. I found that out after I got here. I came to visit my two uncles but they're not … here any more.”

The waiter brought their three drinks. Ezra paid him and looked across at the others in close conversation. “Don't be stealin' my gal, Pat, er I'll tell Sally shore as shootin'.”

Pat said, “I think Sally would take to Lily.”

“You're married aren't you?” Lily asked him.

“But I'm not,” Ezra rumbled. “I'm free as thuh mountain flowers an' ripe fer pickin'.”

Lily smiled across the table at him. She seemed completely unmindful of his one blind eye and horribly scarred face. She said sweetly, “I don't see how on earth you've remained single so long, Mr. Ezra.”

Ezra's single eye glowed warmly. He took a long drink from his glass and said, “We're wastin' some good music.”

Lily sighed. She looked around at the crowded dance floor and then got up and held out her arms to him. Ezra lumbered to his feet with a smirk at Pat and took hold of her with his big hands as carefully as though she were a fragile doll.

With his back to the dance floor, Pat got out the makings and rolled a cigarette. He was lighting it when Sheriff Hartly came up to drop into the chair Ezra had vacated. “I hear you had a little run-in with Bull Miller already.”

Pat nodded gloomily. “He was sore about losin' at chuck-a-luck.”

“Might have been more than that,” the sheriff warned him.

“Think he's one of the Runyon outfit?”

“Hardly one of them. But he's a man who can be hired for almost any deviltry. If someone's after you, Miller would be a good man for the job.”

The sheriff leaned back and glanced at the dance floor, now crowded with couples. He gave a little start and frowned at Pat. “Your red-headed pardner has picked himself a funny one to dance with.”

“Lily?” Pat nodded with a grin. “If they ever get close enough to rub them two heads together, look out for a fire.”

“I didn't mean that. Don't you know who she is?”

“Lily Lytell, she said. From Chicago.”

“She's a niece of the Runyon brothers.”

“The outlaws?” Pat looked at him in surprise.

Sheriff Hartly nodded soberly. “She turned up here a couple of weeks ago and acted surprised to find out they've hit the owl-hoot trail. Claimed she didn't know when she left Chicago that they'd gone bad. Thought they were still honest miners and she'd come out plannin' to live with 'em.”

“Tough on her to find out the truth after she got here,” Pat muttered.

“That's what she
said,”
Hartly reminded him. “She hasn't any proof she's really their niece like she says. As for believin' she didn't know the truth about 'em, well, I dunno. A gal that turns around an' goes to work in a dance-hall ain't any better than she should be. How'd she come to pick Ezra up?” he concluded. “Someone tell her he's heading on the trail of her uncles?”

“I dunno,” Pat admitted. “Here they come now. Want to ask her?”

“Not me.” Sheriff Hartly got up hastily. “She hates me. Claims she thinks I'm persecutin' her uncles an' they ain't as bad as I make out.” He went across the room with a wave of his hand.

Faint color showed in Lily's cheeks when Ezra brought her back to the table. She told Pat, “I saw you had company while we were dancing.”

“Sheriff stopped to say hello.”

“I hate him,” she said viciously. “I hate everybody in town that brands my Uncle Cleve and Uncle Art as outlaws. They aren't. There's some mistake. I know they aren't.”

Ezra looked across the table at her in amazement. “Yore Uncle Cleve an' Uncle Art?” he ejaculated. “Why, them're …”

“Yes. The Runyon brothers. The famous outlaws!” She laughed scornfully. “They're both as gentle as can be. They wouldn't kill a fly. Why, I visited them with mother eight years ago and they were the nicest men I ever knew. Used to buy me candy, and pick bouquets of flowers for me.” Her eyes filled with tears and she pounded a small fist on the table. “They can't have turned outlaws. I know they can't.”

“Men can change a lot in eight years,” Pat reminded her soberly.

“I won't believe it. If I could only get to them somehow. Send them a message. You see, they don't know I'm here. After mother died I was all alone and I thought it would be nice to surprise them. I just had enough money to get here, and then …”

“It musta been tough,” Pat muttered.

“Must be a coupla low-down coyotes tuh treat you thataway,” Ezra growled belligerently. “I'd shore admire tuh get my hands on 'em an' wring their blasted necks good.”

“Lookit who Miss Lily's got buyin' drinks for her,” a harsh voice grated from behind Pat. “Reckon she ain't heard these're two lawmen come all the way from Powder Valley jest to get that reward for bringin' in her uncles.”

Pat turned in his chair to look at Bull Miller standing a pace behind him. A tall dark-featured man stood a couple of feet to one side of Bull. He wore two guns low on his hips like a man who was accustomed to using them, and his arms were folded across his chest while a sardonic smile twitched his thin lips.

Lily leaned forward and ejaculated, “What's that you said?”

“He's right, Miss,” the tall gunman told her. “Mighty funny tuh see you hobnobbin' with these two lawmen when you been talkin' all over town 'bout how yuh believe yore uncles are innercent.”

Pat pushed back his chair and got to his feet slowly. He told Bull Miller, “I warned you to stop repeatin' them lies about us.”

Bull's right hand rested lightly on his hip. He laughed nastily. “Hate to see a nice gal like Lily took in. She's got a right to know the truth.”

“Is it the truth?” Lily asked in a strained voice. “Is it, Ezra? You told me you were making a pack trip into the mountains …”

“Shore they are.” The tall man laughed harshly. “Makin' a pack trip into thuh mountains after yore Uncle Cleve an' Art.” He watched Pat tensely as he spoke.

Pat glanced aside at Ezra. The big man was standing up and there was a look of simple pleasure on his scarred face. He had twisted his chair around as he arose, and held it tilted behind him with both hands gripping the back of it.

Pat knew that Bull's hand rested on the hilt of a sheathed Bowie knife. He knew that he had a chance to beat the gunman to the draw, but that Bull's knife would surely get him before he could fire a second shot.

He turned half away from both of them toward Ezra and said quietly, “Looks like they got us this time. We better not …”

With no warning at all, he drove his body low and sidewise into Bull Miller.