The Brave Ride Tall (A Sam Spur Western Book 9) Read online

  ‘Do you have somethin’ to hide?’.

  ‘I do not have to stand here.’

  ‘Walk away any time you like. Go over to the saloon you own, look around the real estate you own. Go look at the small businesses you’re putting the pressure on and may own one fine day. Go, Mr. Blaxall, to the bank you own. The bank that held the notes on Trask’s place. Remember Trask? The man whose sheepherder died with a gold nugget in his pocket.’

  Blaxall was white to the mouth. For a moment, he was incoherent with rage. It was interesting to watch him conquer it. His hands, which had clenched and unclenched gradually settled for becoming fists.

  Through his teeth, he said— ‘This is the grossest slander. You will answer for this. I cannot see your purpose.’

  ‘I’ll answer for nothin’. It’s your word against mine. No witnesses. As for my purpose. I’m rattlin’ you, Blaxall. You’re getting’ all set to do somethin’ foolish. The technique never fails. Some lawmen go about it all secretive. Not me. I call the score as I go. It never fails.’

  ‘In God’s name what terrible thing are you accusing me of, Spur?’

  ‘For the minute—just bein’ greedy. That ain’t illegal. Right now you’re in the clear. Run along and foreclose on some other cowman. Put the squeeze on some little merchant who can’t hit back. An’ you can maybe raise that reward to a thousand dollars. I’m savin’ for retirement.’

  Blaxall stared at him like a man who could not believe this was happening to him, then he turned on his heel and walked away. He walked as though he were slightly drunk. There was another badly rattled man.

  Spur watched him disappear into the Last Chance where no doubt he would give himself the drink he needed so badly.

  The marshal rose slowly to his feet, stretched and decided to go rattle some more folks around town. First, though, he would visit with Molly O’Keefe, the saloon girl, that is if she was out of bed yet.

  He walked into the Lucky Strike. The interior was pleasantly cool and there were no more than a couple of customers. They leaned on the bar and idly batted flies away from them. Mort Gaines wasn’t in evidence and behind the bar was a young man with most of his front teeth missing. He had a pleasant grin and freckles. He looked harmless. Mort most likely thought he was capable of looking out for the pre-noon crowd. He asked for Mort and the young man said he was still asleep. Mort seldom showed before noon. How about Molly? She was in the kitchen eating breakfast. Go on through if you want to see her. She looked like hell in the morning, but if that was what the customer wanted. Spur ordered a beer. It came cool and welcome and he downed it with a sigh. Then he walked through to the rear of the place till he found the kitchen.

  Molly O’Keefe was sitting at the table putting away ham and eggs. Mort believed in feeding his girls. Men liked ’em fleshy. The young man out front was right. Molly looked pretty dreadful, but she found him an Irish grin as he walked in, offered him coffee and told him to take a weight off his feet.

  At the stove there was a sweating Mexican cook. He answered Spur’s flourish of Spanish cheerfully and asked him if he’d eaten. Spur said yes but that bacon smelled good. A plate of bacon, eggs and beans appeared and he started through it. He glowed a little. This was nice. He liked kitchens and a feeling that he was welcome.

  “I guess you want to ask me some more questions,’ the girl said. ‘Go ahead. Maybe I can answer ’em, maybe I won’t.’

  Spur filled his mouth, swallowed and said: ‘Lily ever talk to you about what she and Mart Walker talked about?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Did she or didn’t she? You want me to find the man who killed her or don’t you?’

  ‘That Lily,’ said the Mexican in Spanish, ‘what ever could a man see in her? All skin and bone. But she was a serious woman. You know that, amigo.’

  ‘Does Molly understand Spanish?’ Spur asked.

  The Mexican laughed.

  ‘She doesn’t even understand English too well.’

  ‘What about Lily?’

  ‘She talked to me. Sure, I’m just a no-good greaser. You know how it is. The Anglos think we don’t have ears and eyes. But that one, Lily, she spoke to me as if I were a man.’

  Molly said: ‘What the hell’s he gabbin’ about?’

  ‘He’s tellin’ me about his wife an’ kids.’

  ‘He’s a lyin’ bastard. He don’t have no wife an’ kids.’

  The Mexican grinned.

  ‘You know she and this fellow, they were going to be married? You know that?’

  Spur didn’t know it. It shook him a little.

  He thought he’d get straight to the point: ‘She ever tell you about the fight he had with the Apache?’

  The fat face became grave. The dark eyes flicked toward the girl.

  ‘Yes. Once she spoke of it. Martin came back from the fight. In her eyes he was a hero. You understand how it is with a woman? Nobody thinks too well of this Martin, but he is a brave man. Truly brave.’

  ‘Did he see the Indians?’

  The Mexican spread his hands.

  ‘How do I know this?’

  ‘Hey,’ said Molly. ‘I thought you come here to ask me questions.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get to you in a minute.’ Then in Spanish to the Mexican: ‘You sure they were Indians?’

  ‘Sure? Who else can they be but Indians? Who else but the barbarians …’ The man’s words died away. He was thinking. His face brightened a little. ‘I ask you this—how did Martin see the Indians if they attacked in the dark?’

  Spur came fully awake.

  ‘In the dark? You mean the attack took place in the dark?’

  ‘Sure. At night.’

  ‘You have helped me a great deal, my friend. What is your name?’

  ‘Miguel Morales.’

  Spur sighed. Maybe half the Mexicans in this town were Morales. He turned to Molly.

  ‘Anybody tell you not to talk to me, Molly?’

  The girl started at the direct question.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘He was only thinkin’ what was best for me. He looks after his girls.’

  ‘Mort? He didn’t look out for Lily too well.’

  He thanked Miguel for the breakfast, grinned at Molly and walked out. In the bar he came face to face with Mort Gaines. The man looked as if he had just risen from his bed. Which was probably the case. He was leaning on his own bar and drinking whiskey. That was the second man in the last hour Spur had driven to drink.

  He said to Spur: ‘You should ought to leave the girl alone, Spur. You want she should be next on the list?’

  ‘That sure is a thought, Mort,’ Spur said. ‘You’d best keep your gun handy.’ He walked out, leaving the man staring after him with his jaw dropped.

  Spur crossed the street, went along the sidewalk and entered the establishment of Millicent Prayboy, spinster. He had ideas about Miss Prayboy. She had a face that most likely wouldn’t launch a canoe let alone a thousand ships, but her body was another story. If she was manless, then Spur didn’t know a thing about women.

  She was the only person in the shop when he entered. She made a nice picture as she sat at the table sewing. When she looked up at him, distaste showed on her face. He reckoned that if any more women looked at him that way he’d start thinking he smelled or something. He decided to be smooth, charming and Texan. This included him baring his head in a courtly fashion, bowing slightly in the fashion of the time and saying in a soft caressing manner: ‘Mornin’, Miss Millicent, ma’am.’

  Coldly, she replied: ‘Good morning, Mr. Spur. Have you come to plague me with more odious questions?’ She had, be noted, a pair of quite magnificent eyes. Her mouth was mean and prim. Her figure gave it the lie delightfully.

  ‘Last night,’ he said, ‘I went beyond the bounds of good manners and I’ve come to beg your pardon.’ She got as near as a lady could to snorting. He ploughed on gamely. ‘You must put my rudeness down to my natural anxiety for your safet
y, ma’am.’

  Her head jerked up, the fine eyes met his.

  ‘My safety, sir?’

  ‘Strange man bustin’ into your home, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Violence on the street right outside your door; the horrible crimes committed lately in this town, need I say more?’

  She seemed slightly mollified.

  ‘I was not the only one who thought your manner insulting,’ she said in a softer tone.

  ‘Put it down to youth and inexperience, ma’am,’ Spur said. ‘I feared for your safety. You yourself were frightened.’

  ‘And good cause.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ she said, ‘you have apologized and I have decided to forgive you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am a busy woman.’

  ‘Might I say how distressing it is to see a lady so gently reared as yourself forced by circumstances to labor. Yet, I must say you do it with a charm and grace.’ Jesus, he thought, I’m running out of fool words. But he saw that he didn’t need any more. Millicent Prayboy was melting. She was hungry for flattery.

  ‘You Texans,’ she said and did her best to blush. Those magnificent breasts heaved a little. It was a quite fascinating sight. Her green satin dress fought manfully to contain them.

  ‘How did you guess I was from Texas, ma’am?’

  They were flirting now. She gave him a glance over her sewing like a southern belle eyeing a man over a fan.

  ‘You Texas men all have a way with you.’

  He looked all grave, gallant and southern.

  ‘It’s meetin’ so elegant a flower of womanhood in this benighted place, ma’am, brings it out in a man.’ Hell, he’d gone too far. But, no, the lady was lapping it up. She wasn’t hungry for flattery—she was greedy. Quite a few greedy folks around here.

  ‘Sir, you’re just sweet-talkin’ a lady old enough to be your … sister.’

  ‘I wonder, ma’am … no …’ he showed great hesitation. ‘I reckon you would have to care for your reputation. I’ll dismiss the thought.’

  She laid down her sewing. Her fine eyes were bright.

  ‘What were you about to say, Mr. Spur?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I reckon I was being presumptuous.’

  ‘Now, you’ve aroused my woman’s curiosity. You naughty man.’

  She dimpled. The mean mouth was soft.

  ‘I was about to say … well, you bein’ here on your lonesome. With all this danger around. Why, if I could be of any kind of service … I mean, should you be alarmed in the dark hours, I’m always at your call, ma’am.’

  Her tone changed, her words came quickly. Eagerness showed in her eyes, then it was blotted out by a thought He guessed what that thought was.

  ‘Quite out of the question.’ She knew her reply had been too tart. She pulled herself up. ‘I have to think of the talk. You mean it kindly and I’m grateful.’

  ‘I had the best of motives, Miss Millicent.’

  ‘I’m sure you did. The thought is appreciated.’

  He shot the next question at her gently. He didn’t want her alarmed now.

  ‘Have you dusted this mornin’, ma’am?’

  She looked around in a kind of domestic alarm.

  ‘Does the place look that awful? Why, there was no time. I slept late and I have sewing to get through.’

  ‘It looks fine. With your permission, ma’am.’ He stepped past her quickly. She was on her feet in sudden alarm.

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’

  He was at the open archway that led to the room at the rear of the shop, pulling aside the curtain, his eyes searching the floor.

  ‘Just looking, ma’am.’

  She made a murmuring sound of protest. She hovered, hand to her heaving breasts. Her face first flushed and then went white.

  Spur found what he wanted.

  A man in dusty boots had stood here. The right position to look around the curtains and watch the street through the window. He stooped and picked something up. It was the butt of a smoke. He slipped it into his coat pocket.

  He looked around the room. It was attractive, the room of a woman without much money but with enough taste. He turned back to the woman.

  ‘The man who got away from us through here, ma’am,’ he said, ‘was here before he came out on the sidewalk and shot at me.’

  She looked ready to faint. But she didn’t. She kept her nerve and faced him.

  ‘I lied to you,’ she said. ‘I was frightened. I’m a defenseless woman living alone. You must understand. This man came here, through my back yard. He knocked. I didn’t know who he was,’ Or she thought he was somebody else, he thought. ‘He had a gun and he threatened me. What could I do?’

  ‘Only what you did, ma’am,’ he said. She looked at him gratefully.

  She walked past him into the room. She came very close to him. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

  ‘A lady,’ said Miss Millicent, ‘feels safe with a man like you around, Mr. Spur. She surely does.’

  Mr. Spur didn’t feel that a gentleman felt too safe with a lady like Miss Millicent around. He found that he was sweating. He tried to keep his mind on his work.

  ‘Who was he?’ he asked.

  She looked at him in wide-eyed wonder.

  ‘Why, I swear I never saw him before in all my life.’

  She was a very bad actress. Whoever had decided to use this woman as a cover had made the mistake of his life.

  Spur put a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered at his touch and almost melted against him.

  ‘Miss Millicent,’ he said, ‘I know what went on here. That’s my job, to know what goes on.’

  She was ready to believe him. He had judged her right. She was a well-shaped, curiously attractive fool. She was watching his face with hungry eyes.

  ‘I swear I didn’t know this man,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s forget about it. The whole business is horrid and distasteful to me.’

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘You’re too good for this kind of thing. You shouldn’t be mixed up in it. Blaxall had no right to get you in it in the first place.’

  She fell for it pathetically.

  ‘He made me think it was right,’ she said. ‘I would never have done it if I thought it wasn’t right.’ Only then she saw what she had admitted. A slender hand went up to her mouth. She looked at him in a kind of confused horror.

  ‘You beast,’ she said. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do.’ She looked as if she might cry. At first she was merely cross. She saw that she had been indiscreet. Then the true enormity of what she had done came home to her. She looked badly frightened. She clutched at Spur. She was no longer acting. Terror emanated from her. Spur put his arms around her. He found himself with an armful of very desirable woman. At any other time …

  ‘Don’t you be afraid of Blaxall,’ he said and couldn’t help wondering if he had any right to tell her that. By now the word would be out that Spur was with Millicent Prayboy. It would have been guessed that he would pry information out of her. They would be aware of the weakness of their weakest link. He wondered how near he was to the source. Was it Blaxall? He couldn’t prove a thing? Was the creature who had done the terrible killings of Walker and Lily a hireling of Blaxall’s? He felt sure that those two killings were connected to the killing of the sheriff, but he doubted that they all three had been carried out by the same man.

  Absently, he kissed the woman in his arms, more or less as a gesture expected of him. She responded with an ardor that he found himself responding to.

  He was saved by the sounding of the door bell. Someone had altered the shop. Miss Prayboy stepped back from him, flushed, fingers tidying her hair. Her face was now almost pretty enough to match her superb body. He put a finger to his lips and signed for her to enter the front part of the shop.

  She flashed him a half-ardent and half-nervous smile and parted the curtains.

  She said: ‘Good morning, Miss Dueby.’

  He heard Silena Dueby’s husky and attractive voice.
He had guessed that somebody would come to interrupt his interview with Millicent Prayboy, but he hadn’t thought of Silena. That raised possibilities. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. Silena was speaking in a low voice. He backed out of the house, went across the yard and onto the vacant lot to the rear. Not hurrying, he walked along to Lincoln, entered it down an alleyway and walked back to the hotel. Here, he found the lobby deserted. Mounting to his room, he found his door open and inside Manuela was dusting. He greeted her gallantly in her own language, closed the door and was told that Miss Silena did not approve of her being in patrons rooms with the door closed. He asked how he could possibly take advantage of her youth and beauty with the door open and left it closed. She didn’t protest, but her duster moved at twice the speed.

  He sat on the bed and surveyed her, wondering how close she was to Silena, how much she would disclose about her employer.

  ‘I spoke with Miguel Morales at the Lucky Strike this morning,’ he said. ‘Is he a relative of yours, Manuela?’

  She looked a little surprised and disappointed at the turn in the conversation. She stopped dusting.

  ‘He is my mother’s brother,’ she said.

  ‘You … you are young and you are beautiful,’ he said. ‘Therefore you have a special admirer. Perhaps many. May I ask who?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There is such a one. Naturally.’

  ‘And you will marry him?’

  ‘I have no father, you understand. My uncle, Miguel, he takes the place of my father. And he does not approve. He says that my lover is too wild. This is not so. He is a man. Impetuous. You know how young men are.’

  ‘And this young man, does he live here in town?’

  ‘He is a vaquero.’ She glowed. Spur pictured the dashing Mexican horseman, all leather, silver conchos and clanking spurs. They were a tough self-reliant breed. They lived dangerous lives and they were never rich. This girl would end in a jackal with a few goats, soon she would lose her looks with hard labor and child-bearing.

  ‘For whom does he ride?’

  ‘He worked on the ranch of the Señor Trask.’

  That was interesting.

  ‘He is a lucky man. Who is his patron now?’