The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Page 7

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing. Somebody I never heard of. I haven’t even seen him.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Henry Arnold.’

  ‘Anybody else ever heard of him?’

  ‘Not that I know of and I’ve asked around.’

  ‘That’s interestin’, Trask. Glad you came to me. How’re you makin’ out now?’

  ‘Earning a boy’s wage in the hardware store in town.’

  ‘Which was your bank?’

  ‘The one right here in town.’

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘Oscar Wilton.’

  ‘Where’s his home?’

  ‘Lincoln.’ In reply to Spur’s question, Trask described the place.

  Spur said: ‘You go on home, Mr. Trask. I’m grateful for your information. You’re suggesting the killing of the Basque is tied in with the other killings. You could be right. I have a hunch you are. You keep your ears open an’ I’ll find a way of contactin’ you quietly. I’d recommend you didn’t wait in my room again. You might get yourself shot. I’m a mighty nervous man.’

  Trask rose. They shook. Spur unlocked the door and Trask went. Spur returned to the bed and sat for a while, thinking. He wasn’t doing too badly, all things considered. But there was too much danger around for his liking. He had the opposition pretty worried, but he still didn’t know who the hell the opposition was. He was as much in the dark as when he had first ridden into this place.

  He rose, left the room, slipped the key into his pocket after he had locked the door and walked softly down the stairs. At the bottom, he paused. The murmur of voices had stopped. There was nobody about. He left the hotel and walked to Lincoln. There were few people about on the street He turned right down Lincoln and found the house Trask had described to him. The thought occurred to him that Trask was a plant and had set him up, but that was a risk he had to take: This was a lead and he was going to follow it. If he was walking into a trap he would have to rely on his speed and ingenuity. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done so and come out alive.

  The house was well-cared for, flowers grew in profusion on either side of the path he trod to the door. Their scent filled the air. Lamplight glowed behind curtains to the right of the door.

  He rapped with his knuckles on the white-painted wood. There was silence for a moment, then he heard the sound of footsteps. A woman. The door opened and revealed her faintly in the lamplight beyond. It fell on his face and almost silhouetted her. She was around thirty-five, small and neat, a woman who lived comfortably and was confident of her place in the community.

  ‘Good evenin’, ma’am,’ Spur said. ‘My apologies for callin’ at this late hour. I wonder if Mr. Wilton would spare me a few minutes.’

  ‘I… well, sir, it is late. Who …?’ She seemed a little flustered.

  ‘My name is Spur. I’m the Deputy United States Marshal.’

  ‘Of course. I’m Mrs. Wilton.’

  Spur murmured that he was proud to know her.

  She said: ‘Mr. Wilton is engaged’ at the moment.’

  ‘The matter could be urgent, ma’am. Would I be imposin’ myself if I waited? I would appreciate it.’

  ‘Why, yes. If you say it’s urgent, sir, Please come in.’

  He followed her into the house, quickly, she led him into a room to the left of the entrance, brought a lamp in from the hall and asked him to wait, she would inform her husband. She left the room and Spur looked around him. A well-furnished room- nice pieces, books, a piano against the wall. Mrs. Wilton had brought culture to Crewsville. He slipped to the door and opened it a crack. The door opposite opened and a man stepped into the lamplight of the hall. His face was half in shadow, but Spur could see enough of it to recognize the man. It was Blaxall. He dosed the door and backed up from it.

  So Blaxall was here to see the banker—what was so strange about that? A man could go and see a banker any time of the day or night he wanted. Maybe Wilton was a personal friend.

  Just the same …

  Spur waited for the street door to open and close. The sound didn’t come. He heard a door close at the opposite end of the hall. He didn’t doubt that Blaxall had left the house. He had gone out the rear way.

  The door of the parlor in which he stood opened and Mrs. Wilton stood there. She was smiling in a soft and genteel manner.

  ‘Mr. Wilton will see you now,’ she informed him and turned to lead the way. Like being taken to royalty, he thought. He was curious to see this man Wilton.

  He was led into a large room on the opposite side of the hall. The window was open and the curtains moved in the light evening breeze. It had been opened to get rid of the cigar smoke. The furniture was good and solid, there was a leathery smell in the air that mingled richly with the aroma of cigars. The man who rose from behind the leather-topped desk wore a velvet smoking jacket and held a meerschaum in his hand. He was smiling, showing a gold tooth, as he stepped around with a hand held out. Fifty years old maybe, almost white-haired and plenty of it, face ruddy and glowing with health. A man who lived well but somehow remained physically fit at the same time.

  ‘Marshal,’ he declared in a pleasant and cultured voice, ‘this is a pleasure which I could have wished for sooner.’ They shook. His hand was firm and dry.

  From the door, Mrs. Wilton said: ‘I’ll leave you two gentlemen. If there is anything I can fetch you, Mr. Spur.’

  ‘Not a thing, thank you, ma’am.’ Spur bowed. Wilton beamed, gestured to a chair. Everything about the man showed good-will, well-being. He enjoyed life to the full.

  Spur sat. The chair was covered in leather, well-padded and well-sprung. It was a pleasure to sit in it.

  Wilton sat behind the desk, upright his eyes bright with intelligence as if he found it the most stimulating thing in the world to meet a lawman of Spur’s kind. He lit his pipe, puffed twice and said: ‘I take it you’re here on business, Marshal. Too late for a social call. So it has to be in connection with the reason for your being in our town at all.’

  The man didn’t seem to fit, Spur thought. Why should he be out here in this wilderness cut off, from the niceties of the eastern cities? He would have been more at home in a New York club, a Boston salon. His wife, too, did not belong here. Men came West for different reasons of course. Mainly because they weren’t wanted in the East, because they couldn’t make good in the east or because they had been born out here. Which category did Wilton fit? He’d find out before he was through.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘it’s late. I’m here on business. I have some questions to ask. When I have the answers, I’ll leave you in peace. When I have the answers.’

  That set the note for the proceedings. Wilton didn’t like it. He winced ever so slightly, He looked slightly disapproving as if Spur had acted in bad taste.

  He tried to be brusque himself. All things to all men, Oscar Wilton.

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘You own the local bank?’

  Puff-puff, a nod—‘Certainly.’

  ‘Own, Mr. Wilton?’

  ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’ A little indignant.

  ‘Do you own it or manage it?’

  ‘I fail to see that’s either here nor there.’

  ‘It’s very much here,’ Spur said. ‘I suggest you answer me.’

  ‘I’m not at all sure I like your tone, sir. In fact—’

  ‘It doesn’t interest me one cent’s worth of damn, Wilton, whether you like it or not.’ He was going to rattle this man till his pants fell down.

  Wilton forgot his pipe. He was frowning. The smile had quite gone.

  ‘See here,’ he said, ‘I am not without influence and I—’

  ‘All right,’ said Spur, ‘I take it you don’t own the bank. You’re a front for somebody else. Who?’

  ‘I really must object.’

  ‘You can object all you want when I have the killers in jail,’ Spur said.

  ‘What possible connection
can there be between my bank and these terrible … I really fail to see …’The man was lost.

  ‘Who owns the bank?’

  ‘I refuse to give you that information. It is confidential.’

  ‘Blaxall,’ Spur said.

  The name hung between them. Wilton’s mouth worked. His eyes protruded. Spur felt a little sorry for him. But not much.

  Wilton tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  ‘Now,’ said Spur, ‘I want to know who bought up Trask’s notes.’

  The bank man was on his feet.

  ‘This is too much,’ he cried. ‘How dare you!’

  Spur also rose. His face was tight, his eyes for the first time in the meeting showed the hardness that lay beneath the surface of the man. Only now did Wilton see that this man was dangerous.

  ‘Wilton,’ Spur said, ‘I came here to let you know that I know Blaxall owns you, he owns the bank and he foreclosed on Trask. There is a dead sheepherder to account for too.’

  ‘Are you accusing me?’

  ‘I’m not accusin’ anybody of anythin’. I’m just showin’ you what kind of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into. A couple of days’ diggin’ an’ I’m goin’ to tie that dead Basque in with the other killin’s in town. There’s somebody around here tryin’ to make himself a big man in this territory. I’m givin’ him warnin’ here an’ now, he ain’t big, he’s just plain greedy. An’ he’s insane.’

  Wilton looked wildly around the room as if to find a way of escape from this madman.

  ‘These terrible accusations,’ he cried. ‘They’ll get you into serious trouble, Marshal.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Spur snapped. ‘You think I can have more trouble than I have? Man, there’s several killers loose in this town after my hide. They tried to kill me this evening. They’ll try again before long. They can’t afford to let me live. But I’m givin’ notice here an’ now. I’m goin’ to live an’ I’m goin’ to plant every last one of ’em. More than that—I’m goin’ to put a rope around the neck of the man behind ’em.’

  He walked to the door.

  Faintly, Wilton said: ‘What has this to do with me? I’m a respectable business man making an honest living. Your behavior is outrageous. Quite unbefitting a public official.’

  Spur smiled.

  ‘If you don’t know what this has to do with you, Oscar, you sit and think about it awhile. It’ll come to you.’

  In the hall, he passed the woman hovering there. Neither spoke. He let himself out of the street door and walked down the pleasant little path. The flowers still smelled sweet. That was about all that knelled sweet around there.

  He walked down Lincoln and slipped into the dark maw of an alleyway. He waited for five minutes. Then he heard footsteps. A man hurried by the entrance of the alleyway. It was Oscar Wilton. The news would soon get around.

  He walked back down the alleyway, going cautiously, reached the backlots and crossed them till he was near the livery corral. The moon was up now and the scene was bright. He followed the corral wall and entered the yard. The lamp was no longer burning outside the barn. The small cabin where the old man lived was in darkness. Spur reached the entrance to the barn and put his hand on his gun butt. This would be a good place for them to be waiting for him.

  ‘Ben,’ he called.

  ‘Here.’

  He entered. He found Ben in the straw and said: ‘Room for two in here?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  He settled down in the straw and soon fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Ben woke him saddling his horse. Spur wished him luck and the Negro rode out, going away from the street and around the rear of the corral to pick up the trail of the wounded man. The opposition would have its hands full with two wounded men and a dead one. If Spur was in their boots he’d be feeling nervous. He was feeling pretty nervous in his own.

  He washed up at the pump, was sworn at by the old liveryman and walked along to Nick the Greek’s for breakfast. The other men there stared at him, but they didn’t speak. The Greek sweated and looked embarrassed at his being there. Spur never let other people’s embarrassment worry him. He went along to the barber’s and had a shave. The barber was full of the night’s doings. But Spur didn’t learn much there. He returned to the hotel and found Silena in the lobby. She didn’t look pleased to see him.

  ‘Your key’s missing,’ she told him tartly.

  ‘In my pocket,’ said Spur.

  ‘While you were out all night,’ she said pointedly, ‘some armed men came and searched your room.’

  He was interested.

  ‘Who were they?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Their faces were covered.’

  ‘They would be.’

  ‘I’m not accustomed to this kind of thing, Mr. Spur. Maybe it would be a good idea if you found accommodation elsewhere.’ She looked magnificent when she was mad and she was mad all through now.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Where would I find a proprietress as beautiful as you?’

  He walked up the stairs and entered his room to find that what she said was true. His room had been gone over very thoroughly and nothing that had been taken out of drawers had been put back. They had taken nothing. He tidied up patiently, changed his shirt and sox and sat down for a gentle think. It didn’t get him anywhere. He knew that only action would do that. He had tipped the hand of the opposition and the action would come soon enough. He wondered when he would get word from the Kid. He hoped that he was safe. He felt responsible for the little cuss. Why, he didn’t know, but he did. Just the way he was made, maybe.

  He walked down to the sheriff’s office and found Mike Student worrying. Not about anything in particular, just the general situation. Spur wondered how far he could trust the man. He knew next to nothing about him.

  Spur took a chair out onto the sidewalk and watched the town. He saw Oscar Wilton come to work. Watched him walk along the street and saw that the man had wilted visibly. That could only be a good thing. If affairs were organized around here, there were other men wilting out of sight. He saw Trask sweeping in front of the hardware store. The man looked across at him once and didn’t look again. He wondered if he could count on him at a pinch.

  Then Blaxall came along.

  This man certainly hadn’t wilted. He looked on top of the world.

  ‘Mornin’, Marshal,’ he cried. ‘I have good news for you.’

  Spur smiled amiably.

  ‘That’s somethin’ I can sure use,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve gotten the reward money up to five hundred dollars,’ Blaxall told him. ‘That should start, bringing in the information.’

  Spur beamed as if this was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

  ‘That’s great,’ he said, as enthusiastic as a schoolboy. ‘I can’t say how grateful I am to you, Mr. Blaxall. I reckon you’ve earned the thanks of every law-abidin’ citizen.’

  Blaxall looked modest.

  ‘A man does what he can,’ he said. ‘Any further developments, Spur?’

  ‘I reckon I can say “yes” to that,’ Spur said. ‘I have a lot of people awful worried, Mr. Blaxall. It’s always a good sign when they try to kill you.’

  Blaxall frowned.

  ‘You mean that dreadful business last night.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’ He laughed. ‘These boys are all right when they’re shootin’ down defenseless men and cutting, women up, but they ain’t so hot when they come up against profession. There’s a lot of men in this, Mr. Blaxall, an’ when there’s a lot of men in somethin’, some of ’em start to spook when things go wrong. Things have started to go wrong and some of ’em have started to spook. I’ve been over this ground before. The rot’s set in, take my word on it.’

  For a moment, Blaxall was lost in thought. Then he seemed to come to and said: ‘I hope you’re right, Marshal, I truly do. But I don’t know I can go along with you when you say
there are a number of men mixed up in this. It looks to me, and, I might say, most of the men of this town, that there’s a kill-crazy fellow loose around here. And the sooner he’s brought in the better.’

  ‘You’re wrong there Blaxall, with all respect,’ Spur said smoothly. ‘Sure this fellow is kill-crazy. He’s plumb out of his head. But he’s one man behind an organization. He’s ambitious an’ he’s greedy. I know the pattern. I’ve been over all this before, like I said. This fellow just doesn’t have what it takes to make his way honestly. He’s cunning, but he’s short on brains. So he takes a short-cut. Through violence. Well, the cuts he’s been takin’ lately have been a mite too short. Pretty soon he’ll walk into a bullet that’ll get him right between the eyes.’

  Blaxall cleared his, throat. He looked away from Spur then said: ‘Well, I’m a busy man. I can’t stand here talking all day.’

  ‘Just what’re you busy at, Mr. Blaxall, if a man can ask?’

  The question stopped the man dead.

  He stood and stared at the lounging marshal.

  ‘I can’t see that’s any business of yours, Spur,’ he said. Anger snapped in his eyes.

  ‘Funny,’ said Spur. ‘That’s what Oscar Wilton said to me last night.’

  ‘You questioned Oscar?’ The man sounded surprised.

  ‘You know damned well I questioned Oscar,’ Spur said. ‘He ran all the way to you to tell after I left him.’

  ‘I don’t think I appreciate your tone,’ Blaxall said.

  ‘He said that too. You don’t have an original word between you. Well, you didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I don’t have to answer your question. It’s an impertinence and I must say that I don’t think it wise for an official of your somewhat lowly standing, to take this tone with a man of my position in the community.’

  Spur’s smile lingered.

  ‘You’re confused, Mr. Blaxall,’ he said gently. ‘I’m not a cow-county sheriff restin’ on votes. I answer to the federal marshal. You have any complaints, why you run to him. You’ll get a kind of dusty answer. Now, what are you busy at, Mr. Blaxall?’

  ‘I … I have business interests in the town. I am not obliged to disclose them.’