Play a Lone Hand (14 page)

Dixon's voice was persuasive, and Bentham knew he was softening Sarita.

“Yes, I overheard—” Sarita's voice ceased, and Bentham's pulse quickened. What had she overheard?

“You overheard what?”

“Nothing.” Sarita's voice was flat, scared.

“You're afraid of him, aren't you?” Dixon jibed.

“You don't know Grady,” Sarita said dully. “He'd have it out of me if he suspected I'd even seen you.”

She's whipped
, Bentham thought. He'd heard enough to know Dixon could talk until midnight and get nothing more out of her. Softly, he closed the door, and then moved off into the night.

Pausing, he felt an odd excitement within him. Dixon was the kind of reckless tenacious fool who wouldn't be stopped. His very presence here testified to that.
Then why not help him?
Bentham asked himself. They were both after the same thing.

Then, thinking of Sarita and her fear of Grady, Bentham knew he must play this carefully. She mustn't suspect anything. After a moment's thought, he moved around the corner of the saloon and went inside. The poker game was still in progress, and none of the players noticed him as he went behind the bar, lifted out a gun from under it, and tucked it in the waistband of his pants, then went out into the dining room.

Giff had heard the footsteps in the dining room, and he ceased talking. The door swung open silently; and after putting down his cup of coffee, Giff glanced up.

Bentham was standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand held hip high. His chill, malignant eyes regarded Giff closely.

“I got a look at the brand on your horse,” Bentham said. “It's a livery horse of Murray's.”

Giff waited, watching.

“You aren't riding through.”

“I don't recall saying I was.”

Bentham watched him a bitter moment. “You're Dixon aren't you?”

Giff only nodded and gathered his legs under him to move. Only the belief that Bentham had not reached the point of decision held him longer in his chair.

“Go saddle your horse and clear out of here,” Bentham said thinly. “Sarita, light a lantern.”

Mrs. Bentham moved around behind Giff and he could hear her take down the lantern, fumble nervously at the wall-box of matches and strike a light. Bentham never ceased watching him and now the old man said, “Take it.”

Giff turned in his chair and accepted the lighted lantern from Mrs. Bentham. She hurriedly passed him and went out of the room hugging the wall and careful to keep out of the way of her husband's leveled gun.

“Do I go now?”

“Get up.” Bentham moved in behind Giff as he turned toward the back door. Outside, Bentham directed him to the corral. For a dismal moment, Giff wondered if this was only Bentham's way of moving him outside where there would be no witnesses to the kill. The flesh on his back crawled; he kept remembering the dead cold eyes of the man holding the gun. A break into the night would only bring it quicker, he knew; and he tramped on.

When he reached the corral, he saw his horse nuzzling the last of the hay that had been forked from the shed. With the corral poles between them, he might have a chance, he thought; he hung the lantern on the gatepost and reached for the wire latch.

Suddenly Bentham's voice from behind him said quietly, “She'll be watching from the house. Keep on working while I talk. Do you understand that?”

Giff didn't, but he said yes as he opened the gate. He walked over to his saddle atop the corral and Bentham spoke in a low voice, “Sebree came to me the other night and asked me if I could send out for a reliable killer. I sent for him and he'll be paid five hundred dollars for killing a man.”

Giff lifting the bridle from the top pole of the corral, moved over to his horse. “Who is it to be?” he asked without turning.

“You.”

Giff slipped the bit into his dun's mouth and then moved back for his saddle. He glanced obliquely at Bentham, hoping the man's expression would give some clue to the cause of his treason. Bentham's news carried little surprise for him, but its manner of telling did. There was no time to follow it through now for Bentham was talking again. “The man's name will be Jim Archer. His instructions are to put up at the Territory House and wait until Sebree gets in touch with him. Have you got that?”

“I have, but have you?” As Giff heaved the saddle off the corral top, he glanced again at Bentham. There was a puzzlement in the man's face. Giff asked, tramping toward his horse, “Are you ready to leave here?”

“If I have to.”

“You have to, and the sooner the better.” He slacked the saddle to the ground and put the saddle blanket on his horse.

Bentham's voice was directed at his back, “I don't get it.”

Giff heaved the saddle up on his horse's back, then pulled the horse around so that he could look across the saddle at Bentham. “I'll get this Archer,” Giff said quietly. “When I do, Sebree will know who pointed him out to me.” He saw Bentham considering this with a wry carefulness.

Giff gathered up his reins, stepped into the saddle, and pulled his horse toward the gate. Bentham, stepping aside, said, “It's time anyway—past time.” He looked up as Giff passed him and said in a low voice, “Don't thank me. Just get Sebree.”

And then Giff passed him, heading for the canyon road.

5

It was Sheriff Edwards' custom to open the store each morning, wait the few minutes until the first clerk arrived and then walk the two blocks to the county courthouse and assign his deputies their day's work. This morning, however, he unlocked the door and, instead of spending a pleasant interval watching the town come to work, he tramped down the main aisle toward the back stairs.

His conversation with Welling last evening had brought him a sleepless night and sober hours of self-searching; sometime during the small hours of the morning, he had come to the conclusion he was acting upon now. It was plain to him that Sebree was in deep trouble, and that the April seventeenth issue of the
Free Press
lying in the store's basement files would turn that trouble into catastrophe.

But it was trouble with the
federal
government, not the county, Edwards reasoned. County officers were not bound to aid the federal government unless ordered—and nobody had ordered him. On the other hand, Sebree had been generous to him. Besides being the store's best customer, Sebree was the real power in the county. He had ordered Edwards' election; and then had asked few favors, all of them reasonable, in return. Because that left Edwards his self-respect, he felt in some obscure way that he was honor bound to help Sebree. The least he could do in return then was to destroy the evidence which would convict Sebree of a federal offense. He would leave judgment of the ethics of Sebree's crimes to others who knew the facts, he told himself.

He struck several matches on his way down the dark passage to the newspaper files, and when finally, his hand shaking nervously, he contrived to light the lamp, he paused a moment and reminded himself that there was no special hurry. Yet there was, he knew. If Arthur Miles saw him coming up from the basement at this hour of the morning, he might suspect his errand; and Edwards did not want to share his secret with anyone.

Kneeling before the stack of
Free Presses
, he thumbed through them until he came to the April twenty-fourth issue. Below it was the April tenth issue and for a baffled moment Edwards read and reread the dates. When if finally came to him after further search that the April seventeenth issue was missing, he rose slowly, fighting down the panic rising within him.

Only Arthur Miles could have taken it, he knew, for Arthur was the only employee who knew the filing system existed. The longer he pondered this the more certain he was that it could only have been Arthur. His reason for taking it would be innocent enough. The whole town, as well as Edwards, knew that gambling was Arthur's weakness; Henty's monte table had cost him the store and it devoured a good half of his monthly earnings. He wanted that copy of the
Free Press
for the real pleasure he would have in gambling away the fifty dollars Welling would pay for it.

Edwards slowly moved over to the lamp and blew it out. It would not be difficult to retrieve the newspaper from Arthur. No man was fool enough to lose his job over fifty dollars, and Edwards intended to use that threat.

Making his way to the stairs, Edwards hastened up them. A glance at the first floor assured him that all the clerks were on hand. He climbed the balcony steps' and halted at the head of them. Arthur had not arrived yet. Edwards glanced at his watch, saw that it was some minutes after seven-thirty and crossed to his desk. He opened the safe, brought out his business papers and got down to work. But it was impossible for him to concentrate on anything until Arthur arrived.

By eight o'clock he had given up trying to work and watched the doorway for Arthur's entrance. By eight-thirty he was certain something was wrong; either Arthur was ill or, what was more likely, he was afraid to come to work for fear Edwards had discovered his theft.

Edwards rose then, put on his hat and went down stairs. On his way out, he paused long enough to ask of one of the clerks if Arthur had come to work that morning. Nobody, the clerk said, had seen him.

On the plankwalk, a thought came to Edwards that appalled him. What if Arthur had already taken the newspaper to Welling? Could he be with him now, this very moment? It would explain Arthur's absence from the store. He must find out.

Almost at a run, Edwards crossed the street and entered the hotel lobby. Pausing at the dining room door, he glanced in and saw Welling eating a solitary breakfast at one of the window tables. Edwards breathed a shaky sigh of relief, removed his hat and crossed the room, nodding occasionally to the diners he recognized.

Welling, at his approach, said affably, “Good morning, Sheriff. Have a cup of coffee with me?”

Edwards declined with thanks and asked, “Has your copy of the
Free Press
turned up?”

A kind of embarrassed uneasiness touched Welling and he shook his head in negation. “It's hardly had time.”

“I suppose you're right,” Edwards said. He excused himself abruptly and left the room. He was safe so far, but he must find Arthur promptly. He would hunt the town, beginning at Arthur's house.

Miles's home, a block past the ugly yellow brick courthouse, was set in a large uncared-for lot, bordered by tall cottonwoods; and it had once been one of the town's substantial homes. Now its paint was peeling and the plantings around the house were running wild. The gate in the picket fence had been left open for so long onto the cinder sidewalk that a path was worn in the weeds around it. Edwards mounted the rickety steps, knocked on the door and received no answer.
Maybe he's ill
, he thought suddenly; it he were, he could not be expected to answer the door, so Edwards knocked again and stepped inside.

He had his mouth open to call when his voice died in his throat. The dusty close room was in a monumental disorder, with books, papers, clothes and dishes littering its chairs and its worn floor. Obviously the room had been ransacked.

A kind of dread touched Edwards as he beheld it. In the far wall a door opened into a room beyond and Edwards crossed the room to it, and on the sill halted abruptly.

On the faded bedroom carpet lay Arthur's body, the stain of blood long since shed darkening the carpet beneath him.

The ransacked house and the lifeless body before him told Edwards all he needed to know. The newspaper would be gone and Arthur had probably died defending it.

From whom?
Edwards already had the answer to that question. The government allowed no employee to murder in its name, so it couldn't have been Welling.
That leaves Sebree
, Edwards thought calmly. The corollary of that thought was like a cold hand of fear that touched Edwards' shoulder.
It's up to me to arrest him
.

Edwards hesitated only a moment while he made his bitter choice. Then he set about righting the disordered room, in a hurry to begin covering up.

Corazon's early risers were the teamsters who had horses to curry and harness before their day's work could begin. This morning Giff had breakfast among them at the Family Cafe, and afterward, when he stepped out into Grant Street, it was deserted save for a pair of romping dogs, whose capers stirred up thin streams of soft dust.

He turned at the land office corner, his half boots ringing hollowly on the deserted plankwalk. Three blocks beyond he saw Cass at his town-farming. This was the hour, he knew, that Cass preferred to be alone with his garden; and when Giff reached the half-block plot, he hunkered down on his heels against the trunk of a bordering cottonwood and had his after breakfast cigarette.

Cass saw him, but continued hoeing his corn for another few minutes. Then, finishing the row, he shouldered his hoe and tramped over to where Giff was sitting. There was a kind of tranquillity in Cass's round face that Giff envied; and neither man spoke immediately.

Cass sat down beside him and had his look at his crop, which, in its strange setting amongst the tall trees and houses of the town, was nevertheless a balanced farm in miniature.

Presently, Giff said, “Cass, a new man will come to town in three or four days. He'll put up at the Territory House. His name will be Jim Archer.” Now he looked at Cass. “Suppose you could let me know when he comes in?”

“Where'll you be?”

“That's just it, I don't know. But you can always find me.”

“Who is he?” Cass asked. “Land Office?”

Giff smiled faintly at the thought, but only shook his head. “Just a man I want to see when he gets here.”

“Sure,” Cass said, and his curiosity ended there. He plucked a stem of grass and chewed thoughtfully on it for a silent interval. Then he said, “Your boss spilled over at the mouth again, didn't he?”