Maverick Showdown (10 page)

The evening was well along when Slade awakened. He bathed and shaved, and, congratulating himself on having his change of clothes washed and ironed, dressed and sallied forth in search of something to eat. At the Trail End he found Carter awaiting him.

“Figured you’d be along most any minute,” the sheriff said. “I wired Dalhart that you had finished off one of the bunch and recovered some of the money. They wired back congratulations; got the message just a little while ago. I handed the money to the Amarillo bank people; they’ll credit it to the account Lambert had with them.”

“A good way to handle it,” Slade agreed, giving his order to a waiter.

“Folks are buzzin’ over the way you handled the business,” the sheriff went on. “Of course I had to explain how I got hold of the carcass.” He chuckled.

“But I didn’t tell ’em about you getting dunked in the drink. Figured it wasn’t necessary. Just told ’em you managed to down one of the devils and the others hightailed.”

“Thanks,” Slade said smilingly. “The less I hear of that bobble, the better pleased I’ll be. I still can’t get over it — like something out a comic paper.”

“Reckon there wasn’t anything much comical about it when it happened,” observed Carter. “Guess you were fit to be hogtied.”

“One has to be a bystander to really appreciate the humor of such an incident,” Slade conceded.

“I’ll just have another snort to celebrate it,” Carter chuckled. “By the way, we did find the horse that Open Door drygulcher rode. A good critter, slick-iron burned. Got it in my stable. What with money from the devils’ pockets and the sale of cayuses, the county’s getting rich.”

Slade’s food arrived, and for a while conversation lanquished. Relaxing comfortably with a cigarette, over a final cup of coffee, he asked:

“Anybody recognize that body?”

“Oh, you know how they are,” Carter snorted. “Think this, think that, think the other thing, never sure about anything. Only the head barkeep at the Open Door had anything to say worth saying. He said he was sure he’d served the feller several times; said he used to stand at the far end of the bar, said Frayne spoke to him, as he does to everybody. Guess he didn’t hear what was said.”

“Another advantage of the saloon business for such as Frayne,” Slade remarked. “Can contact his men there, give them instructions, with nobody thinking anything about it, and nobody the wiser. Oh, he’s one shrewd article, all right; never misses a bet.”

“He’ll miss one, his last one, sooner or later,” growled the sheriff. I hope
I
get the chance to line sights with the hyderphobia skunk. Can’t think of anything I’d like better.”

“Here’s hoping you get the chance, and soon,” Slade said. “Nothing could please me better.”

Carter growled again, under his mustache, and ordered another snort.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if Keith Norman and Jerry show up tomorrow,” he predicted. “She’ll devil him into it. Hope she does; she’s a good luck piece. Nearly every time she’s along, you knock off an owlhoot.”

“And I hope I don’t have to knock off any more in her company,” Slade said. “Gives me the shivers when I think of what might have happened.”

“Oh, you take care of her, and as for that, she’s pretty good at taking care of herself,” Carter replied cheerfully. “Now what?”

“Now I’m going down to the Open Door to see if Frayne has gotten back,” Slade replied. “Figure he’s had plenty of time to make it to town if he was of a mind to.”

“And I’m tagging right along,” the sheriff declared. “Not taking any chances with you.”

“Okay,” Slade said, “only if he is there, keep your face straight and don’t give anything away. I’m still not sure he suspects I have the lowdown on him, and if he doesn’t, I’d like to keep him that way.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t learn anything from me,” Carter promised.

When they arrived at the Open Door, Erskin Frayne was there, impeccably garbed as usual, debonair, and assured. He greeted them cordially.

“Just got back from another long ride,” he announced. “Was up in Oklahoma, looking over some prospects.”

“Prospects?” Slade prompted.

Frayne smiled slightly. “Spreads,” he replied. “I’ll have to admit I’m getting a yen for the cattle business again. As I said, saloons make money, but that’s about all one can say for them. Nothing else very attractive. I’m beginning to hanker for the outside.”

“I imagine being cooped up does grow monotonous,” Slade ventured.

“It does,” Frayne maintained vigorously. “And it’s essential that one like one’s work, take an interest in it, and pleasure with what is accomplished. If you’re not satisfied with it, no matter what the financial rewards, you’re not content. I guess you can understand that, Mr. Slade.”

“Yes, I can understand it,” Slade agreed. “One doesn’t need to set the courthouse on fire to find happiness and peace. No matter how lowly one’s calling is, if one is absorbed in it and is exultant over an accomplishment, small though it may be, there is ample recompense waiting.”

As he spoke, although he did not seem to do so, Slade watched Frayne’s expression closely. It seemed to him that the habitual glitter of his pale eyes intensified, and was accompanied by a marked speculation, as if he was trying to read the speaker’s mind, to arrive at a certain conclusion. However, he merely nodded agreement and turned the conversation into other channels.

After a casual discussion of various matters pertaining to the saloon business and ranching, Slade and the sheriff said so long to the owner and departed.

“Well, think he’s planning to pull out?” he latter asked.

“It’s beginning to look a little that way,” Slade replied. “Although I don’t think he will just yet. I’d say he’d like to try another chore or two first. He made a good haul from Lambert’s wagon and at the moment, I’d say, is well heeled with money; but he’s greedy for more.

“Very cleverly, he’s doing the spade work, preparing folks for his pulling out of the section when he’s a mind to. When and if he does, nobody will think anything of it, there will be no surprise, for it will be recalled that for some time he has been complaining of dissatisfaction with the business and expressing a desire to turn to something else. Oh, he’s a shrewd one, all right, and we’ll have to step pretty lively or he will slip through our fingers. There’s enough against him to hang him a dozen times over, if we can prove it. So far we can’t.

“I think he’s worried a trifle,” Slade added thoughtfully. “He’s trying hard to draw me out, to make up his mind to just what I am and why I am here. I’ve a notion he’s beginning to suspect that my working with you is a cover-up and that I may have a personal axe of some sort to grind.”

“Your
El Halcon
reputation paying off, eh?”

“It is possible,” Slade conceded. “Well, we’ll see.”

The sheriff swore gloomily and they headed for the Washout and the jovial company of Thankful Yates, who was calculated to raise spirits and banish pessimism.

“Strange that such a man should take the wrong fork in the trail,” Slade mused. “Wonder what set him off in the first place? Resentment because of a real or fancied wrong, perhaps, as in the case of John Ringo, gradually developing into a hatred for all mankind. He is utterly ruthless, devoid of mercy. Kills a man with no more compunction than he would a poisonous insect. Perhaps the blood lust is the same as any other vice, intensifies as it is put to use. The poet Alexander Pope expresses it very well.”

“How’s that?” the sheriff asked. Slade quoted:

“Don’t exactly understand it all, but I gather it means that after a while a feller gets to liking bad habits, if he ties onto them too long.”

“I’ve a notion that although Mr. Pope might be slightly staggered by the phrasing of your interpretation, that you very nearly hit the nail on the head,” Slade smiled.

“I’m getting better all the time, a little more of your company and I’ll be plumb smart,” the sheriff said cheerfully. “Well, here we are; maybe a snort or two of Thank-ful’s cactus juice may help.”

It did. Soon the sheriff was quite chipper.

“Ol Thankful sure knows how to pick ’em,” he remarked with an appreciative glance at the dance floor. “Just the same, though, there ain’t one there that can hold a candle to your little Jerry gal. She’s a looker, and besides, she’s got plenty underneath that curly hair. Smart as a treeful of owls. Right there with bells on, too, if a ruckus busts loose; don’t give a hoot for anything.”

“With your statements in general I heartily agree,” Slade replied. “But the pun you made, if one may call it such, was execrable.”

Said the sheriff, “Let us drink!”

They spent quite a while in the Washout, chatting with Thankful. The night wore on and they ambled up to the Trail End for a word or two with Swivel-Eye, then decided to call it quits. Slade said good night to the Sheriff and repaired to his hotel room. He sat down on the bed that was shoved against the partition wall. It creaked loudly under his weight as he removed his boots.

However, he didn’t lie down just yet. He wasn’t particularly sleepy and felt like doing a little thinking. So he occupied a chair by the window and sat gazing out at the moonlight.

The night was very still, with only a faint murmur of voices reaching his ears, for there were few people on the streets. The leaves of a tall tree that grew close to the building wall, but a little way down from his window, rustled softly in the slight breeze, making a restful music. He began to drowse.

Suddenly he shot from his chair, wide awake. From somewhere nearby had come the muffled boom of a gun, a splintering sound and a slight thud. Another report followed the first, another and another, and still another. He realized the shooting was going on in the next room, beyond the partition wall against which his bed was shoved. He stood listening intently. There were no more shots, but a slight scuffling as of boots on the floor boards, then silence.

For another moment he stood listening, but there was no further sound from beyond the partition. Every nerve at hair-trigger alertness, he glided to the door and cautiously opened it. There was nobody in the hall. He moved to the door of the next room and again stood listening. Still no sound. Keeping well to one side, he reached out and slowly turned the knob; the door was not locked. He hesitated, still listening, then shoved the door open a way.

A wall lamp, turned low, burned in the room which was, so far as he could see, deserted. But somebody might be hugging the wall beyond the door, although he believed his unusual hearing could catch the sound of a man breathing, were there one behind the half open door.

He fumbled a cartridge from his belt and tossed it into the room. It hit the floor with a sharp rattle that would surely have brought at least a slight movement from an occupant of the room. No sound resulted.

Taking a chance, he flung the door wide open and bounded into the room, sliding along the wall, hands gripping the butts of his Colts.

He was alone in the room. Almost against the open window was a stout tree branch, by which evidently the nocturnal visitor had entered and departed. He turned the lamp higher and glanced around.

The bed in this room was also shoved against the partition wall. His gaze centered on the wall. Piercing it were five bullet holes in a line and but a few inches above the bed. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

Now voices were bumbling downstairs, there was a patter of feet on the steps. Slade whisked from the room, closing the door behind him, and into his own room, again closing the door. The room clerk was coming up the stairs to investigate. Beyond the stairhead, doors were opening and, on the floor above, voices called back and forth.

Slade gazed at the partition wall. Just above the surface of his bed was a line of splintered holes, bullet holes. He shifted his glance to the far wall and saw evidence that there the slugs had lodged. His eyes rested on the bed again.

Well, if he had been lying on that bed, he would probably have stopped snoring, but he wouldn’t have awakened. A very, very nice try. He had encountered something similar some years back, a couple of shots through a partition, but not nearly as cleverly handled as the present attempt. He recalled a story that John Wesley Hardin had once killed a man with a shot through a partition, because the fellow’s snoring annoyed him. Perhaps the gent who holed up in the next room had heard the story and had drawn inspiration from it.

Now there were more voices in the hall. Somebody hammered on his door, calling his name. He opened it to admit old Tally, the room clerk.

“Did you hear it, Mr. Slade?” he chattered excitedly. “Any notion where it was?”

“I’d say it was in the next room,” Slade replied nodding toward the partition.

Tally rushed to the next door, turned the knob and flung it open. A few smoke rings drifted lazily out.

“It was in here, all right,” he exclaimed. “I can smell the powder. But there ain’t anybody here. Where’d he go? How’d he get out? I know darn well he didn’t come through the lobby, and I’m sure there was nobody registered for this room — you’re the only tenant this side of the stairs.”

Slade sauntered to the window and looked out.

“Nobody out here, either,” he announced. Casually he closed the window and slipped the latch. Now nobody could enter by way of the window that he wouldn’t hear, no matter how soundly he was sleeping. He certainly didn’t expect an encore, but best not to take needless chances.

Tally was still swearing and conjecturing. “Maybe the feller was cleaning a gun and let it off,” he said.

“Very likely needed cleaning,” Slade replied, with truth. Tally apparently did not note the discrepancy between the remark and the situation as it stood.

“Perhaps he ran into another room,” he observed hopefully and started examining them, finding nothing.

“Doors should be locked, but about half of them ain’t,” he grumbled. “Blasted swamper who cleans the rooms ain’t to be depended on. Well, it’s got me beat. Anyhow, doesn’t look like anybody got killed.”