Desert of the Damned (14 page)

Reifel shook his head.

“You look kinda meechin'.”

“I’m all right,” Reifel said, dragging a sleeve across his face. “Get a fire under that wagon. Burn those posts. Then spend the rest of the day on that wire. I’ll meet you tonight at Boxed Y headquarters.”

He was turning his horse when Black called after him. “If you don’t show up whereabouts shall I hunt you?”

“The Dry Bottom bank,” Reifel said, and departed.

R
EIFEL RACKED
his horse before the high false front of the Sparrowhawk, a gambling joint that boasted the longest bar in town, and stared across Dry Bottom’s single street as though he were there to meet some one and couldn’t understand what was keeping the fellow. This was mid-afternoon with trapped heat hanging over the warped plank walks and an air of desertion hanging over the street. Two women in calico and wearing poke bonnets had just stepped out of the Kollossal Mercantile and by the pole in front of the barber shop a cur was sniffing with desultory interest.

Reifel cuffed some of the Bear Flats dust off his levis and found a patch of shade under the Sparrowhawk’s awning and hunkered down on his bootheels with his back to the wall and hauled out his sack of Durham. He was not quite as idle as he appeared to be, for though his hands were slow in shaping up his smoke the eyes beneath his down-pulled hatbrim were constantly enlarging his small store of knowledge against a time when knowing or not knowing might make all the difference.

Across the way stood the Hairpin House, a rambling two-story clapboard affair. Crowding its south flank was a bake shop and, next to this, Bracker’s Millinery with a couple of dusty hats in its window. On the far side of Bracker’s was the Dry Bottom Bank with its front door open and no trade in sight.

Reifel considered the street till his smoke burned down, put his foot on the butt and walked into the Sparrowhawk. Three townsmen were gassing at the bar’s far end and a gent in black broadcloth was laying out sol at one of the deserted poker tables. When the apron came over Reifel got a short whiskey, afterwards ambling back onto the street, still without any real plan of action.

He prowled the board walk, drifting south without hurry or particular intent, while he went over the things he had learned from Gert Kavanaugh, none of which gave him any special inspiration. The pardon which Mossman had offered him was conditioned on his turning up sufficient evidence of Lamtrill’s crookedness for the law to get at him. Bucking Lamtrill’s play to grab Boxed Y might eventually anger Lamtrill to the point where he would get careless and overreach himself, but this would be a slow business and mighty risky for the Kavanaughs, alone as they were on that ranch without protection. They might have to abandon it — probably would. The quickest way to cripple Lamtrill — and the way to make him scream the loudest — was to hit at his greatest source of power — this Dry Bottom Bank and his bank over at Willcox. But if he stuck up a bank Mossman’s pardon was out. Very definitely out.

Reifel chewed at his lip, wanting to help Gert yet hating to cut himself off from that pardon, that chance to go straight which the governor’s boss Ranger had offered him. What had happened at Bear Flats was bound to some extent to undermine Lamtrill’s authority over the hardcase crews which had built up Devil Iron, but only if some other disaster struck at Lamtrill swiftly. Gert’s ideas were sound enough in some respects, but they depended for success upon a crew tough as Lamtrill’s. Reifel had no such crew, nor did Boxed Y.

Still thinking, he turned into the Kollossal Mercantile. There were three women at the counter and half a dozen loafers sitting round on cracker boxes. Two of the women were examining bolts of cloth, the other was buying groceries. All three were gabbing, swapping gossip of the town. When Reifel caught the eye of the clerk who was waiting on the pair inspecting dress material, he said, “Wonder if you could get me a couple boxes of forty-fives?”

The clerk looked at the women, got their permission and came back with the cartridges. Reifel paid him, filled the loops of his belt and shoved the rest in his pockets. “Hear about the trouble at that bank over at Willcox?”

The clerk looked startled. “No. What kind of trouble?”

“Well, the way I heard it,” Reifel said, “there’s a couple of bank examiners going through their books. From the talk around town they may be going to close it up. Something about illegal speculation with the depositors’ funds. Reckon they’ll close this one? Someone was tellin’ me the same guy runs both of them.”

Leaving the Mercantile Reifel plowed through the ankle-deep dust of the road, swung between a pair of hitched wagons, ducked under a tie rail and stepped into the bank. There was only one customer in sight, a lank oldish man in the garb of a cowman who was conversing with the teller through the grill of his cage.

Moving to the customer’s counter in the center of the room Reifel picked up an indelible pencil, took from his hatband a bit of wrinkled paper, scrawled an additional three words and several digits above the three words already on it, and went over to wait behind the so-gabby cowman. While he was standing there three other persons came into the place, hurriedly filled out checks and got into line behind him. One of these was the woman he had seen buying groceries.

There was sweat in Reifel’s hands although he kept his face impassive. From the start he’d understood the source of Lamtrill’s power. If he could loot this bank, news of Lamtrill’s insolvency would wreck his bank at Willcox; his paid hirelings would desert him; the public officials he had bribed would either turn on him or bolt.

This was why he had come here, knowing full well the deadly chances he was taking. Since this was Cochise County he might run into Sheriff Lafe or one of Lafe’s posse might be here and see him. He might be recognized as the man who had taken over Cog Wheel or as the man who had spearheaded the morning’s gunplay at Bear Flats. This clerk behind the grill might be alerted and on the lookout for the very piece of paper Reifel was holding in his hand.

The bank was filling up, he heard the buzz of conversation, but he kept his face straight front. When the cowman moved away Reifel pushed his paper under the grill without comment. The clerk took a look, frowned and studied the paper more closely.

“What’s the matter?” Reifel said. “Nothin’ wrong with it, is there?”

“Well … it’s a little irregular — ”

“What’s irregular about it? She has an account here, don’t she?”

The clerk looked uncomfortable. “I’ll have to get an okey — ”

“Okey for what? You’re the payin’ teller, ain’t you? That’s her signature, ain’t it?” Hearing more people crowding into the space behind him, Riefel raised his voice in an affronted snarl. “That’s a plain bearer demand for a thousand dollars signed by Lamtrill’s own daughter! What kind of flimflam you givin’ me? If you ain’t got the money — ”

“Of course we have the money. We have plenty of funds on hand to meet all emergencies, but — ”

“Then what are you stallin’ for? If you’ve got the money, pay it and quit horsin’ around!”

There were growls loosed behind him and the teller’s glistening cheeks turned pale. His harried eyes swept Reifel’s face and he said, “We have plenty of cash but — ”

“You said that before! If you’ve got the money, pay it!”

Several people behind Reifel took up the cry. One man shouted, “What the hell is goin’ on here?” and a woman’s shrill voice cried, ‘They won’t give us our money!”

An angry roar filled the building. A door back of the teller was abruptly flung open and a big fleshy man in blue serge rushed up to the teller. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What’s all this racket, Critchlaw?”

The pale-faced teller showed him Reifel’s paper. “This fellow — ”

The big man snatched the paper out of his hands. His beefy face turned dark as he read it and he swore under his breath as his glance took in the packed lobby, the jam at the door, the swelling sea of angry faces peering in through the window. The man’s bitter eyes beat against Reifel’s face and the muscles of his jaws clamped hard as granite.

“Mr. Lamtrill,” the teller said, “this — ”

Lamtrill cut him off. “It’s her signature. Pay it.” His glance swept over the clamorous crowd and came back to Reifel’s face like a curse. He was trying to quiet the crowd when Reifel thrust back the bills the teller was worriedly pushing toward him.

“Never mind,” he growled softly. “Just push back that paper. I’ve changed my mind.”

The teller looked like someone had shoved a gun in his face. His mouth fell open; a kind of glassy look came into his eyes.

“Come on,” Reifel muttered, “before I climb in there after it!”

The rattled man passed it back before his boss knew what was happening. Reifel didn’t wait. The crowd had grown so thick about the teller’s cage now he had to use both elbows to get enough space to breathe in. The stench of sweat, of anger and of fear, was almost overpowering. Everywhere men were clamoring for their money — their outcries were deafening in those confined quarters. The bank was crammed with snarling customers determined to get their money, panicked by the thought of losing it. Shoving, pushing, cursing and snarling, those behind kept trying to force their way closer to the grill that separated them from their savings. The center counters collapsed and men tore sections of board off for clubs. The voice of their anger held the sound of a mob — all they lacked was a leader.

Reifel, striking out when he could, using shoulders and jabbing elbows when he couldn’t, slowly moved toward the door. The very weight of their numbers held these men uncertain. Across their heads he could hear Lamtrill hoarsely trying to reason them out of here, but these people weren’t interested in reason; what they wanted was the financial security which they believed Lamtrill’s bank was about to take from them. Their angry, scared and vindictive faces made a solid wall in front of Reifel’s efforts.

He came against a man, jabbed a knee at his groin and set a fist against the face of the man behind. A rough character to the left of him reached for Reifel with his hands and Reifel clouted him with his gun barrel, moving over the man when he dropped. He slammed another in the belly and raked a third across the neck and so reached the door with a sea of snarling faces still before him.

Past caring now he slashed out wickedly, laying open the nearest face with his gunsight, seeing it turn white and red in swift succession. He struck again and again, two more going down, but always there was another man barring his way. For those few ghastly moments it was like something out of a nightmare. Three paces away, on Reifel’s right, a man caught Reifel’s profile with the corners of his eyes and wheeled his head to stare sharply. “Get him!” this one profanely shouted. “Knock that son of a bitch bastard down!”

A fist grazed Reifel’s jaw from the left. The mob pressed closer with groping clawlike hands and one of these hands ripped the collar from his shirt. Another tore at his belt and he threw a knee into that man’s stomach. He sliced his gun barrel savagely across another face and saw blood spurt and then he lowered his head and plunged into those nearest, knocking two men down before the crowd fell away, clearing the door. Those behind came at him then and he whirled completely around, his gun beating them away.

He kicked a man’s legs from under him and instantly two arms closed round his neck from behind. But he kept going, tramping over the fallen one, striking another in the neck, taking the man on his back with him. This way he lunged through the door, plowing into other men more loosely grouped outside. Gathering his strength he whirled once again, the booted legs of the man on his back swinging out like a scythe, knocking men ass over elbows. He ducked his head suddenly and the man’s arms broke loose, catapulting him into the few still before him.

He heard a man back of him yell: “Get the sheriff!” and he whirled to the left, yanking wide the screen door of the millinery shop. A pair of white-faced women inside cringed away from him and he dived between them, dashing down an aisle that was cluttered with hats on a series of poles. He found the rear door, clawed it open and squeezed through, vaguely catching the shape of a man in the alley, hearing his shout, seared by the blinding flash of a gun.

His groping left hand found the panels of a door. One knee sent it crashing and he went in across it, seeing the horrified face of a baker. He shoved the man out of his way, ducked through a second doorway that was hung with a curtain and saw a woman’s scared eyes behind a glass case. He went through a screen door and was again on the street. Three guns flung lead as he rounded the bake shop’s north flank and took the Hairpin House steps at a single bound. On its porch he spun to throw a quick shot behind him.

In the dimness of the empty hotel lobby he thrust the paper bearing Marta May’s signature into his mouth, hastily chewing and swallowing it while he watched the street through the dust-clogged mesh of the hotel’s screen door.

His horse, directly across the road from him now, might as well have been in China for all the good it was to him. Whoever was after his scalp was not going to let him get away if they could help it. And he couldn’t remain here — in almost no time at all they’d have this place surrounded.

Sleeving the sweat from his cheeks he tried to think what to do. Time was of the essence; he had no time to waste. Already he could hear the running pound of approaching boots. Someone out there was hoarsely shouting instructions; and suddenly he saw Breen’s face in the street. Reifel realized now it was going to be impossible to play the cool hand he had intended. A rank intolerant anger threatened to destroy the set of his judgment; he had to fight back the urge to lay his gun on the man. But this wasn’t the time for settling personal scores — not if he would save Boxed Y for the Kavanaughs.

Turning from the door he ran across to a window at the lobby’s north side, braking to a stop before he reached it, arrested by the sight of moving hats in the alley. About to turn back, he heard the groan and skreak of a man’s descending weight on the stairs leading down from the second-floor bedrooms. He slanched a glance that way and saw the man’s legs. He snatched a folded newspaper off a nearby table and sank into a chair with his face hidden behind it.

He heard the man’s booted feet continue their leisurely descent, pause a moment on the landing and then come on to stop in the lobby. He could hear excited shouting in the alley beyond the closed window and the wild raucous yelling of someone in the street, but dared not come out from behind his spread paper. He heard the man at the base of the stairs abruptly ask: “What’s going on? What’s the sense in all this uproar?”