Play a Lone Hand (2 page)

As he raised the cigarette to his lips, a shadow fell across the planks in front of him, touching him. He glanced up and saw a pleasant-faced man dressed in a rumpled suit of black clothes and the black, narrow-brimmed hat of a townsman standing before him. He was gray-haired, on the small side, wore a mustache clipped military fashion, and was somehow familiar.

“Aren't you the fellow they brought to me a month or so ago?” the man asked in a friendly voice.

That would be the sheriff
, Giff thought, and he nodded cautious acknowledgment.

“Doc said he'd turned you loose with a well freckled belly.”

Giff's smile held only a faint humor as he nodded again.

Sheriff Edwards went on, “Normally, I'm not a curious man, but sometimes I'm supposed to be. These Texas riders couldn't explain how you got shot. Can you?”

Giff looked carefully down at his cigarette. “A hunting accident. I was shooting quail.”

There was a moment of silence and Giff looked up to see the corner of Edwards' mouth lifting in a faint smile.

“With buckshot?”

“That's all I had.”

“That's all the other fellow had, you mean. Who was he?”

Giff again looked at his cigarette, and answered idly, “My horse. He wanted to get in a shot, but his hands were cold and he dropped the gun.”

After a moment, he looked up again at the Sheriff. The smile was gone, and there was a faint flush on Edwards' face. There was something else there, too—not anger, only a kind of pity mixed with puzzlement before he turned and moved away.

That was a mistake
, Giff thought narrowly. He realized too late of course that Edwards was asking only routine questions in a friendly way, much in the manner that Murray had quizzed him this morning. He remembered, also, that he had almost walked out on Murray because he'd resented his questioning too. In a bitter moment of self-knowledge, Dixon thought,
You damn fool, this is a new start. You don't have to be feisty now
.

The distant train, in sight now around the bend of the nearest foothill, whistled. Giff came to his feet and was still standing against the wall when the mixed train finally came to a halt at the dusty platform.

A half-dozen passengers descended from the lone passenger car and moved away. Then the brakeman, who had been standing beside the car on the platform, moved quickly up the steps. He backed down, holding a transit whose tripod was folded and lashed, and gently set it down. Then, piece by piece, duffel bags and luggage were handed down to him. Giff noticed then that the attention of every man on this platform was directed toward the passenger car steps, and he knew that all these men, for whatever reasons, were having their close look at the special agent.

When the agent finally descended, Sheriff Edwards went forward immediately, holding out his hand. Seeing him move, Giff remembered suddenly that the agent had written Edwards, and he thought bitterly,
Then my job will last two minutes longer
.

The agent was a stocky man in clean range clothes, and his smile was easy, almost professional as he shook Edwards' hand. His ruddy, loose face held a careless affability and the easy charm of the politician. It was the man behind him, however, who held Giff's interest. This man was older and wore a disreputable duck jacket, scuffed lace boots and a derby hat that had once been black but was now a mottled and sun-faded green. Ventilation holes had been punched just above its frayed hatband. His eyes were the palest gray under sandy eyebrows that bushed fiercely; his unsmiling face held the contained patience of a man who knew and liked his job and thought every minute away from it was a waste of time. Even his handshake was abrupt, Giff noticed, and then he thought resignedly,
Get it over with
, and walked over to the pile of luggage. He picked up the transit, and was reaching for a duffel bag when the older man saw him.

“Ho! You must be my chainman.” He held out a rough hand. “Bill Fiske's the name.”

Giff told him his and they shook hands. Sheriff Edwards had turned at the sound of their voices, and now he looked carefully at Giff.
Here it comes
, Giff thought, and he waited, watching Edwards with a still-faced defiance.

But Edwards only turned and said to the agent, “Welling, this is your guide, Giff Dixon.”

Giff received the same friendly handshake and the identical affable smile. He noticed, though, that Welling's bloodshot eyes gave him a quick and shrewd appraisal.

Afterward, Giff loaded the luggage into the back of the hotel hack, and when the others were seated, he took a place in the back seat beside the gear.

There was talk, then, of the trip from Kansas City, all of it trivial, and then Giff heard Welling ask, “Where's Deyo? Out of town?”

“No, the train isn't very punctual, and the land office was busy this morning. He'll meet you at the hotel.”

The Territory House, Corazon's only hotel, was a two-story adobe affair with a double veranda built at the town's main four corners. The hotel hack finished its quarter-mile journey from the station at the wide stepping block in front of the hotel steps. Giff was first down, and as he unloaded the luggage he saw the man come down the steps and approach them. He was a soft, well-barbered man of fifty, dressed in an expensive dark suit. The color in his sleekly jowled face came from good living, and not from the outdoors. There was a sort of bay rum elegance and arrogance about him that proclaimed his disdain for physical work.

Edwards said, “Here's your man, Welling. This is Ross Deyo. Vince Welling.”

After acknowledging the introduction and introducing Fiske in turn, Welling said, “Where's a comfortable saloon, Sheriff? I'd like to buy you all a drink and talk with Deyo.”

Fiske cut in dryly, “I can't take whiskey this early, Vince.”

Welling laughed. “All right, you'll get a cigar. Only let's be comfortable.”

Deyo mentioned the Plains Bar across from the livery, and they started across the street for it. Fiske paused long enough to say to Giff, “We wrote for rooms. Just lug the stuff up there.” A faint humor wrinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. “You drop that transit and you're dead.” Without waiting for Giff's answer, he started across the dusty street after the others.

The room which the Territory House had reserved for them was a big corner one on the second floor facing Grant Street. Giff made two trips through the cool lobby and up the steps with the gear which he stored neatly in a corner of the room. Afterward, he moved to a window and looked out, musing. He decided he liked Fiske, who would be his real boss. Remembering Welling, his looks, his too easy manner, his eagerness for a saloon at this hour, Giff passed a narrow judgment on the man: he was a boozer and a lightweight. Recalling Cass's warning,
Just don't get mad at them
, he smiled faintly.
How can you get mad at nothing?

He went out, and took to the stairs. There were horses to arrange for with Murray, and he wanted everything ready when he was asked about it.

The elderly clerk hailed him as he passed the desk in the lobby. Extending an envelope to him, he said, “Give that to your boss, will you?”

“Which one?”

“Welling.”

Giff nodded, pocketed the envelope and went out into the street, turning down it toward the livery. A mild traffic stirred on the street. A dozen horses were racked in front of the Plains Bar, and Giff guessed that the word was out that the special agent was on view there. A puncher driving three loose horses passed Giff; he halted to look at them, and afterward turned into the livery. Murray was not in the office, and Giff saw the hostler out in back hammering at the corral gate.

Giff tramped back to the corral and asked the ancient and dirty old man, “Where's Murray?”

The old man ceased hammering. “Farming, where he always is.”

“Where's his place?” Giff asked curiously.

The old man smiled. “Hell, it ain't a farm, but he pretends it is. He's leased a half-block of town lots over east. He farms them half bushel crops just like they was three hundred acres. He can't keep away from growing things. It'll lose him his business, too, if he ain't careful.”

Giff turned back and tramped up the runway. A pair of men were approaching him, the nearest, a big man in clean waist overalls, gray shirt and open vest. He was barely middle aged, Giff judged, although his full black mustaches were heavily threaded with gray. He was carrying his hat in his hand, and his thick black hair, parted deep on the side, held wide streaks of dead white. His handsome, ruddy face was weather-burned, but there were none of the telltale work lines, the brands of sun and wind, upon it. The almost benign expression on his face was somehow belied by the quiet arrogance in his dark eyes.

He was talking to his companion, a squat barrel of a man in soiled range clothes. He glanced at Giff, still talking as he drew abreast of him, and then he halted, ceased talking, and raised a large, well-fleshed hand to flag Giff down.

“Aren't you the fellow somebody told me was looking for a riding job?” His voice was oddly musical, and the expression in his eyes had altered to complete friendliness.

Giff nodded warily; instinct told him this was a persuasive man, and to be alert.

“Have you worked cattle much?”

“All my life.”

“Then you're hired,” the man said. “I'm short-handed now.”

“You still are,” Giff said. “I'm working.”

“Who for?”

“The government. I'm chainman for the special agent's surveyor.”

“And how long will that last?”

“I haven't asked.”

The big man turned to his companion. “How long were the others here, Gus?”

“Oh, two weeks, maybe.”

The big man turned back to Giff and said, “You're still hired, then. Just say I'm loaning you out to the government crew.” He put out his hand. “I'm Sebree, Grady Sebree. This is Gus Traff, my foreman.”

Giff shook hands with them both, then Sebree asked, “That all right with you?”

Giff didn't answer immediately, and then he said dryly, “This is a mighty changeable country, Mr. Sebree. For two days I've cruised the town looking for work. I've talked to men from most of the outfits and nobody is hiring, they told me. Now I'm offered two jobs in one day.”

Sebree laughed easily. “Well, if you're a rancher, your men can get sick on you, and they can just plain quit on you. One quit on me last night, and another's sick.” He paused. “Even if I hire another hand today, I'll need you in two weeks. Want the job?”

“If you want to wait,” Giff said.

“Good. Oh, yes. You'd better pick up your saddle at Burtons.” A kind of wry amusement crept into his blue eyes. “You'll need that, even working for the government. Tell Burton I sent you.”

Giff nodded, and Sebree started to turn away, then checked himself. “Where are you surveying first?”

“Nobody's told me.”

Sebree rubbed his cheek with the palm of his hand, looking off into space for a moment. “Tell you what. As soon as this agent fella' has made his plans, let me know, will you? I'd ask him myself, only I make a point of keeping myself and my men away from these agents. I don't want it thought I'm trying to influence them. As soon as their work is mapped out, I'd like to know what it is. I don't want any information that's private, and I don't want you to break a confidence, you understand.”

There was no mockery in his tone, yet it was plain in his eyes, and when he finished speaking, a faint smile of irony lifted a corner of his mouth. Immediately, Giff understood the invitation, and he knew then why Sebree had hired him. The promise of a job had been held out to him, and he was getting his saddle back—this was in exchange for future information as to the plans of Welling, who probably intended to investigate him. Sebree had contrived to get this across to him by saying the exact opposite, and Giff had a brief and wary admiration for the man's cleverness. It was difficult to offer to buy a man without insulting him, yet Sebree had managed it. Giff had his choice of accepting or rejecting the offer without committing himself, which was what Sebree intended.

“All right,” Giff said. Sebree gave him a parting smile and went on. Giff paused momentarily at the archway, then turned downstreet toward Burton's saddle shop. With a kind of cold amusement, he considered Sebree's proposition. Was he owing loyalty to a boozing politician who was probably incompetent, or to a man who had already done him a favor?
Wait and see
, he told himself cynically,
but first get the saddle
.

He passed a brick building on the corner which he noticed for the first time had Corazon District Land Office chiseled in the red sandstone lintel of the corner entrance, turned right, and went in to the adjoining building. Burton's dark and narrow shop, smelling of leather and oil and clean wood shavings, held a dozen saddles on sawhorses scattered in the front half of the shop.

An old man, unshaven and bent, was working on the wood of a saddletree at his bench. Leaning against the far end of it was a middle-aged puncher, moodily watching the old man work. Both turned as they heard Giff approach.

“Fellow name of Sebree told me to pick up my saddle, and he'd settle for it.”

The old man pointed to a half-dozen saddles against the wall. “It's right where you dumped it.”

Giff went over to his saddle, and then glanced up at the old man. “Who's this Sebree?”

The old man exchanged glances with the puncher before he smiled faintly and replied, “You're working for him, aren't you?”

“Not yet. In a few weeks I will be. But who is he?”

Again the old man glanced at the puncher, “Like to answer that, Les?”

The puncher regarded Giff morosely. “He pays standard wages. That's all you care about, isn't it?”