Bounty Guns (6 page)

“Deputize somebody who will,” Bolling went on, his voice prodding. “And if one man can't do it, deputize more. About ten, maybe.”

“Your men?” Ball said dryly.

“There's only two kinds of men here. Shields's men and our men. And Shields's men won't serve a warrant on Shields himself. So I guess there's nothing left but to let us do it.”

Ball said, “No.”

“Think it over,” Ben Bolling said. “You wouldn't want to make us mad.”

Ball ignored him, looking at Tip. “I'm out of this fight. I told you so today.” He looked over at the Bollings. “That goes for you, too. I don't believe you saw Hagen Shields shoot him.”

Tip, satisfied that Ball was not a Balling man and sick of watchnig Ball be bullied, murmured softly, “They didn't, Sheriff. Make 'em prove it.”

Ball said irritably, “You keep out of this, Woodring!”

Jeff Bolling turned wicked, arrogant eyes on Tip. “That's good advice. Keep way the hell out of it.”

Tip looked at the three of them, and he knew that something was going to happen and happen fast. The Bollings were talking his own brand of fight.

Ben Bolling said quietly, contemptuously, “I'll give you a half minute to get out of here, Woodring.”

“And I'll give you ten seconds,” Jeff amended.

Tip felt that cold gathering in his stomach, the feeling that he could not stop if he would. His left hand was on the desk top. Ball, feet still cocked on the desk, was eyeing him with malicious enjoyment.

Tip's right hand was at his side, and when it moved, it came up in one fluid motion, stopped a little above his hip, and his six-gun was nestled in his hand. With his left hand, he shoved the roll-top of the desk down, until it imprisoned Ball's feet. He swiveled his gun to cover the sheriff.

“You stay put, Sheriff,” he drawled, taking a step toward Ball. The Bollings, wholly taken aback, backed up a step. Tip flipped the sheriff's gun out of its holster, leveled it at the Bollings, then kicked the sheriff's chair out from under him. Ball crashed to the floor on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Lying there on his back, his feet up and pinned at the ankles by the roll-top, he was helpless. Tip wanted him so.

He stepped up to Ben Bolling, flipped his gun onto the floor, and moved on to Jeff.

“That was a sucker play,” Jeff said steadily. Tip didn't answer. Once the guns were on the floor, he threw open the door, and said to Jeff, “Kick them out.”

Jeff hesitated only a moment, then kicked the guns out onto the sidewalk. Then Tip dropped his own guns out on the sidewalk, swung the door shut, and leaned against it, watching the look of puzzlement flush into Jeff's face.

“I was belly down behind the bar last night when you Bollings made your try,” Tip said, his voice deceptively gentle. “I didn't like it then and I don't like it now, especially since I know you.”

Jeff drawled insolently, “What do you aim to do about it, Red?”

Tip lashed out then, his fist catching Jeff Bolling full in the face. Jeff staggered back, caromed off Ben, and crashed into the desk, tripping over Ball, who had his arms up protecting his face. Ben Bolling reached for the chair. Tip, dodging his kick, sank a fist in his midriff. Ben doubled up, and Tip laced an uppercut into his face, driving him into Jeff who was just rising. They both went down again on top of Ball, who yelled in anger. Jeff was up first, fury in his face. Tip took his wild swing in the chest, and was knocked back against the door. Using it as a brace, he lunged at Jeff, beating down his guard. He caught him around the waist, lifted and heaved him into Ben. Again the two of them went down. This time Tip didn't wait for them to get up. He dove on Ben, slashing at his big head. The impact hurt his fist, shocked his arm clean to the shoulder. But he had driven Ben's head into the side of the desk, and he felt his body go slack under him. Tip whirled, half rising, to see Jeff, the chair raised over his head, rushing at him.

Tip dived at his feet as the chair whistled over his head and crashed into the floor, and Jeff went down. Grunting savagely, panting for breath, they grappled on the floor. Ball, calling futilely for help and cursing like a madman, rolled out of their way as best he could while they thrashed around the floor. Jeff had a strangle hold on Tip, and Tip had a palm against Jeff's chin. He pushed until the blood in his temples was ready to burst, and when he felt Jeff's hold slacking, he pushed harder. Suddenly Jeff's arms slipped away. Tip rolled over, coming to his knees. Jeff was just rising, too. They came erect facing each other, slugging wildly, toe to toe, their grunting and the dull smack of flesh on flesh the only sounds in the room. A kind of wild anger had its way with Tip. He knew he was being hurt and he didn't care. He knocked Jeff back against the wall, and Jeff aimed a kick at his groin. Tip caught his foot and twisted, and Jeff fell on Ball and rolled against the wall. He came up in front of the side window and Tip dived at him. His lunge caught Jeff off balance and they crashed into the window. Tip heard the shower of glass, the splinter of wood, and they were brought up short. Jeff was bent backward half out the window, the weight of Tip's body pinning him there. Tip kept it there, slugging at Jeff's face. He drove blow after blow into Jeff's face until his fists throbbed, and then he stepped away. Jeff slacked into the room and rolled onto the floor. Tip stepped back, waiting for him to move. He didn't.

A sudden sound drew Tip's attention. He looked around to see Ben Bolling slowly, painfully, dragging himself to his feet. Tip helped him up, stood him erect, and swung on him with every ounce of his nearly exhausted strength. Big Ben Bolling crashed into the table and fell on his back and did not move.

Tip stood there, his fists bloody, his shirt half torn off him, dragging air into his lungs. A warm trickle of blood flowed down his chin, and he scoured it off with the back of his hand. He was suddenly aware that Ball, lying on his back between the two down Bollings, feet still pinned up under the roll-top, was quietly regarding him with his owl eyes.

Tip said wickedly, “There's more where that came from, Sheriff. You want loose?”

“No,” Ball said softly. “No, thanks.”

Tip picked up his Stetson, jammed it on his head, and strode to the door. He paused there and said to Ball, “I'll make bigger tracks than that, Ball, before I'm through here,” and went out.

He left the door open, and a moment's search revealed his gun on the boardwalk. He rammed it into his waistband and headed down street on unsteady legs. He felt burned out and tired, but his anger still prodded him when he thought of the Bollings and the arrogance with which they set about building the frame-up for Hagen Shields. He had no love for Shields, but to see two men solemnly swearing to a lie, a bullying, roughshod malice in their every act, was a little too much to take. He had made two enemies tonight who would either drive him out of the country or kill him, he knew.

He crossed the street and wearily dodged under the tie rail and mounted the other boardwalk. Where would he go now, and what could he do? His own temper had made this town an impossible place to stay. And he was no nearer the truth now than he had been yesterday. Somebody here knew something about Blackie Mayfell, else why did everybody refuse to talk about it? It wasn't all fear of the Shieldses or the Bollings.

He paused there in the half-darkness of the street, thinking. Lynn Mayfell knew something. Buck Shields knew something. A sudden memory of the old man in bed at the hotel, the man Lynn had talked to last night, came to Tip. This old man favored neither the Shieldses nor the Bollings, else he couldn't keep alive in this town. And he was close to Lynn Mayfell. Maybe he would talk.

Tip swung into the hotel lobby to find it deserted save for an old man behind the desk whom he had not seen before. The clerk stared at him, and Tip suddenly realized that he was not a pretty sight, and just as suddenly decided he didn't care. Mounting the stairs with dragging steps, he paused at the first door in the corridor, knocked, was bidden enter, and stepped inside.

Lynn Mayfell sat in the chair beside the bed. She rose as Tip closed the door behind him. They stared at each other a long moment, and Tip doffed his Stetson.

“What—what happened to you?” Lynn asked in a weak voice.

Tip said dryly, “I bought it all for one dollar. Does that sound familiar?”

A deep flush crept into Lynn's face.

“Go on,” Tip prodded gently. “Tell me it was a mistake of the printer's.”

“It wasn't!” Lynn said shortly. “I did it on purpose. I'm—very sorry if it got you in trouble.”

Tip said unsmilingly, “No, you aren't sorry, lady. The more trouble comes my way, the better you like it.” He looked at the old man in the bed, who was watching him with burning eyes. He had been a magnificent man once, Tip could see, before his body wasted away. His hair was thick, dead-white, his face pale to emaciation, and his hawklike nose was so thin and sharp that it was almost transparent. Tip walked up to him and said gently, “I'm Tip Woodring, old-timer. I'd like to ask a few questions from you, because you haven't got anything to lose by answering me, like”—he glanced coolly at Lynn—“some people around here.”

“All right.”

“I'm here to find out who killed Blackie Mayfell,” Tip said. “They know about him around here, but they won't talk to a stranger. I figure they will talk if I take sides in this row. Who's right, the Shieldses or the Bollings?”

“Neither,” Uncle Dave said bitterly. “They're both wrong as hell.”

“Who do you favor?”

“I like Buck Shields, and I hate Hagen Shields,” the old man said. “I like Lucy Shields and I hate Cam Shields, and nobody could help liking that poor kid, Pate. I like Anna Bolling, and she hates and I hate Jeff and Ben and Yace Bolling and every man that works for 'em, including Murray Seth, their foreman. About the people who take sides with either the Shieldses or the Bollings, they're buzzards. Ain't a one of 'em but hopes to get loot when the other side goes down.” He looked at Tip. “That help you?”

“Some. What about Ball?”

Before the old man could answer, Tip heard the pounding of feet taking the stairs two at a time. Tip wheeled, drawing his gun, and said to Lynn, “Keep your head and there won't be trouble.”

He went over to the door and flattened against the wall, just as a savage knock came on the door. Tip, glancing at the floor, saw the imprint of his own muddy tracks, and he knew that somebody had followed them to this room. Lynn made a move to come over to the door, and Tip shook his head and motioned her to stand there. Lynn stopped and said, “Come in.”

The door flew open, and Tip, who was behind it, had to wait for the voice before he knew who it was. But when the man said in a tight voice, “Where is he?” Tip knew it was Jeff Bolling.

“Who?” Lynn asked calmly.

“That redhead! He's been here, because there's his tracks!”

Tip edged forward. Now he could see only Jeff's hand and wrist, and Jeff was holding a gun pointed at Lynn.

Tip, without a moment's hesitation, lashed at Jeff's wrist with his gun barrel. He heard the impact, saw the gun drop, and he stepped out to confront Jeff, whose bloodied and swollen face held a look of agony.

Tip balled up Jeff's shirt front in his fist, shoved him back through the door out into the hall, and then literally threw him down the stairs. He stood there watching Jeff land on his back halfway down the stairs, and turn a slow and complete somersault in the air before he crashed into the newel post, taking out a section of the rail with him. Jeff rolled to a stop, rose to an elbow, and yelled, “Go get him!”

Tip stepped back into the room, walked across it, shoved open the window, and said, “What's out there?”

“A twelve-foot drop to the saloon roof,” the old man said, and then, surprisingly, he smiled. “Hole up in the loft at the stable, son. And be quick about it.”

Tip swung out the window, just as the sound of running feet below came through the open door. He had only a brief glimpse of Lynn, her mouth open in startled amazement. Halfway out the window, Tip hung there long enough to say to her, “It's taken you a long time to find out that a woman can be too closemouthed, hasn't it?” And then he dropped.

He was standing in the alley when he saw the shape of a man, a gun in each hand, lean out the second-story window of the hotel.

Tip smiled and faded down the alley into the night. At the rear entrance to the feed stable, he could look through the long centerway and see the hostler seated in a back-tilted chair under the front arch, a lantern on a nail over his head. Tip noiselessly swung up into the loft, pulled hay over himself, and dropped off to sleep.

He didn't know when it was that he wakened with the certain knowledge that there was somebody close to him. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he lunged away, clawing at the gun in his waistband.

Then a woman's voice said, “Careful. Oh, please be careful!”

Tip was silent a moment. The loft was dark as pitch, and he couldn't even make out a figure. Yet he was sure it was not Lynn Mayfell who had spoken.

He whispered, “Who is it?”

There was a rustling in the hay, and suddenly he felt a hand touch him. Tense, he waited.

“Is it Tip Woodring?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“It doesn't matter,” the voice whispered. “I'm Lucy Shields. You've got to leave this country!”

“I've heard that before. Why do I?”

“Hagen Shields, my uncle, is going to kill you. I don't know how, but he intends to do it.”

“What for?”

There was a pause. “I can't tell you. Only it's true.”

Tip pondered that a moment, and then he said stubbornly, “I don't get it. Is this just a scare? You don't know me, and I don't know you, except your name is Shields. I know the Shieldses don't want me here, and I don't reckon I'll go because you say to.”