Gunsmoke Masquerade Page 13

  By the time Black came in with Pinto Sanders, they had emptied a bucket of water into Streak’s face with no noticeable result and were about to try and force some whiskey down his throat. Riggs, putting the bottle to Streak’s mouth, stepped away from the bunk as the door slammed, and looked at Pinto.

  “Did you tell him, Luke?” he queried.

  Black shook his head.

  “Pinto, this is that gent Kincaid we were tellin’ you about . . . the one who sold out the boss today.”

  The change that came over the cook would have startled anyone not acquainted with a certain item of local interest that had happened some four years ago. Pinto, a stranger to the valley, had sat in on a friendly game of draw poker his first night in Ledge. Gambling and drink had always been his weaknesses, and that night both had conspired to empty his pockets of a sizable stake he had intended using to buy a small brand that was being auctioned off by the bank next day. He’d taken too much whiskey and crowded his luck too far with a man toward whom he’d taken an instant dislike. That man had been Pete Dallam. In the final hand of the game, Pinto had turned reckless. Until then he had been a small winner in the game. But, his brain fogged with alcohol and his confidence supreme, he had tossed every dollar of his money to the table’s center and challenged Dallam to match the amount and make the deal. Dallam had won fairly. Everyone but Pinto knew that. Pinto had never been sure that he wasn’t tricked. Too broke the next day even to buy whiskey enough to help him through a bad hangover, he had taken the first job that came along, the cook’s job at Crescent B. Since that day he had never tasted whiskey. And since that night of seeing his meager savings go into another man’s pocket he had become a silent, taciturn man. Only one subject could prod him to anything but the mildest response. That one subject was Pete Dallam. Since Dallam’s death all the vitriolic intensity of his hate had been directed at anything bearing any relation to Fencerail. Now, at Riggs’s words, his narrow and ordinarily mild-looking face took on a look that was ugly, vicious. He said nothing, but looked down suddenly at Streak with a stare that was bright with hate.

  “We’re tryin’ to bring him to, make him talk,” Riggs added, and turned back to the bunk.

  He forced some whiskey into Streak’s mouth. Suddenly Pinto stepped in and struck Streak a hard blow across the face. The blow was so hard that it rocked the unconscious man’s head around.

  Streak’s eyes came open and he stared at them dully. Pinto stepped away. For a moment no one spoke. In that brief interval Streak tried to steady his reeling senses and get ready for what he knew was coming. He had been pretending these last minutes, for he had regained consciousness as he was roughly pulled from the saddle of the gray out in the yard. At first he had been groggy, nauseated, and so weak that he doubted he could move under the terrific throbbing pain that seemed about to burst his skull apart with each motion of his body as he was carried in here. He hadn’t known where he was. But as Riggs spoke in the darkened room, he gradually arrived at the truth. There was nothing Streak could remember of those long day hours but a brief return to consciousness there in the grassy cañon pocket by the cave. He had been too weak to move then and had seen only the shadow of his captor as the man knelt behind him and hit him again to knock him unconscious for the second time. He supposed that a gun had delivered both blows; it had been, at any rate, a hard and weighty object, for he could still remember that bone-crushing sensation so like a time, long ago, when he had had a bottle broken over his head. Now, looking up into the line of faces beside the bunk, he was trying to think of a way out of this. The bucket of icy well water dumped in his face a minute ago had sent a shock clear through his body. He had stood it without flinching, without betraying his return to consciousness. It had helped him think, cleared his head a little more. He had refused to swallow the raw liquor Riggs forced between his lips. But for Pinto’s quick reading of the truth, that he was shamming, he might have gained more time. But the cook’s blow had come too suddenly, with too much shock, for him to pretend any longer.

  Riggs ended the momentary silence by saying: “Nice goin’, Pinto. So he was playin’ ’possum, eh?” Staring down at Streak, his glance held a mute warning. Suddenly Riggs reached out and, taking a hold on Streak’s sodden shirt front, hauled him to a sitting position. “So they used you all they could and tossed you to the wolves,” he drawled. “Now you’ll do your stuff for us. Just take your time rememberin’. We want to know what trails Buchwalter’s crew is watchin’ tonight. We’re goin’ across to pay that bunch a little visit.”

  Streak momentarily hung his head, hoping that the dizziness hitting him would pass. It did, shortly, and he looked up again at Riggs. “I haven’t known a thing since around noon. If Buchwalter’s closed the trails, I . . .”

  This time it was Riggs who hit viciously hard, his hand fisted. The blow caught Streak fully on the mouth and knocked him back so that his head thumped against the board wall. Then, catching Streak by the shirt again, Riggs hauled him to his feet. With his free hand he cuffed him twice across his bleeding lips. Again his drawl came smoothly, tauntingly: “In case you’re interested, friend,” he said, “Kelso ain’t particular on whether you’re brought in dead or alive. We got all night for this.”

  Streak shook his head to clear it, wiping at his bloody lips with the back of his hand. Without Riggs’s tight hold on his vest and shirt, he couldn’t have stood alone. He knew that Riggs meant to do exactly as he said, either beat the wanted information out of him or kill him trying to. Glancing beyond the man at the others, Streak caught the same cold viciousness written on all their faces. These were the men Bishop had hired to make his fight for him; they were men who knew death, whose guns had probably dealt it on occasion, and this small matter of making a man talk would be child’s play to them.

  He would have to make up a story to give them. But he needed time to think one out. “I’ll take some of that whiskey now,” he said. “Sure I know where Buchwalter’s got his guards.” He put a whine in his voice, knowing that it would fit with their opinion of him. “But how about a drink first?”

  Riggs loosed his hold and Streak sat down on the bunk’s wet blankets. It was Pinto who proffered the half empty pint bottle, whose glance clung to him longest and with no pity. Streak knew that he would have to give them a story that sounded logical, that he didn’t dare elaborate on it too much, for the cook’s questioning eyes bored into him as though ready to detect the slightest untruth in what he was about to say.

  The shock of the whiskey hitting his stomach revived him, wiped out the dizziness, even dulled the ache in his head and eased the puffed, swollen feeling of his lips. He took a second long pull at the bottle and handed it back to Pinto. Only then did he tell them: “They’re holding the sheep in that big meadow below Prenn’s tonight until they’ve worked ’em all down the cañon.” This much was the truth, at least so far as Streak knew. But from here on he would have to make up a story. “Buchwalter’s using most of his men to cover the east trail out of Prenn’s. He said something about putting the rest on one that went south.”

  Riggs nodded. “That’s the town road.”

  “He’s got men there,” Streak went on. “A few are helping his Mejicanos push the sheep down the cañon. That’s about all I know except that Buchwalter told his bunch to shoot for keeps if they burned any powder.”

  Sid Riggs looked at Sanders. “Anything more you want out of him, Pinto?” he asked.

  “What about the upper meadow, north and west?” Pinto asked Streak. “Is that open?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Pinto was evidently satisfied. His glance left Streak for the first time and he turned away. “Let’s ride,” he said tonelessly.

  “Any ideas?” Riggs spoke to the cook’s back.

  They all waited for Pinto’s reply. Because of his known hatred for Fencerail, he had now become their temporary leader, with even Riggs relinquishing authority to him.

  “A few,” Pinto said. �
�I’ll think ’em over on the way in. Luke said you’re all quittin’. That means it don’t matter how far you go in this, don’t it?”

  “Not one damn’ whit,” Riggs said flatly. “All we want is time enough to turn this noose bait over to Kelso and collect our pay. From then on, anything goes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fred Kelso went to bed at dusk, weary to the bone from having been up all last night and from today’s long ride down from the pass. His brain was feeling that same deep fatigue, for he had never in his life known the torment of such confusing indecision as the day had brought. Last night, knowing that Bishop had been involved in the jail break, Kelso would have gloried in seeing the man take a licking such as the day had brought. He should have been relieved at Buchwalter’s having found a way of bringing his sheep into the country without violating any law or endangering more lives, for it meant a secure future for Laura Dallam, and Kelso sincerely liked the girl. Still, before sleep brought its welcome relief, he was constantly nagged by the feeling that a great injustice had been done that day, that this country would never again be the same.

  The pounding of a heavy fist on the front door of his small slab house some four hours after he had hit the blankets brought Kelso slowly awake to that same bewildering torment.

  “Hold your horses!” he bawled as the knocking came again, and took his time about pulling on pants and shirt. He was still half asleep as he limped to the door and opened it on Sid Riggs, but what Riggs had to say jerked him fully awake.

  “Kincaid . . .” he echoed. “You mean you got him?”

  “Right out here.” Riggs nodded to the group of riders who made a blob of dark shadow against the faint glow of the store lights farther down the street.

  By the time Kelso was at the jail, unlocking the cell adjoining the one with the damaged window and seeing his prisoner of yesterday once again behind the bars, he knew that something ominous lay beneath the surface of Riggs’s casualness. The man’s story was too blithe, too cocksure. Kincaid, so Riggs said, had showed up at Crescent B about two hours ago. The outlaw had been bleeding about the head and face and was unconscious, roped onto his horse. Someone had brought him as far as the bridge, fired a shot to spook his horse on in to the layout, and ridden away again before he could be seen. The rider had been a Fencerail man, of course.

  “But why didn’t Buchwalter bring him in to me if he was through with him?” Kelso asked. “He could use that reward the same as you.”

  Riggs merely shrugged the question aside. “No tellin’,” he said. “Buchwalter’s thinkin’ ain’t always as straight as it ought to be.” He held out his hand. “Where’s the money?”

  “What money?” Kelso bridled. “I got to collect that reward before I split with you, don’t I?”

  In his hurry to finish this part of tonight’s job, Riggs hadn’t considered this. At first he was angry, but then caution overrode the other emotion and he gave an easy laugh. “Never once thought about that, Sheriff,” he admitted. “But when you collect, send my half along . . . general delivery, Las Cruces.”

  Kelso’s brows lifted. “Cruces? You leavin’?”

  Riggs nodded. “Tonight. Bishop’s got his tail tucked too far to suit us.”

  Kelso’s look was one of outright relief. “I’d be a liar if I said I was sorry to see you go, Riggs.”

  “What you think ain’t likely to start us bawlin’,” was Riggs’s tart rejoinder. “But remember. Half that reward is mine. I’ll be back after it if the dinero don’t turn up.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  Knowing the sheriff for a man of his word, Riggs was satisfied with that promise. Without further ceremony, he left the jail and for a few moments Kelso was listening to the sound of horses going down the alley toward the street. Only then did he remember his prisoner and go over to the cell, holding his lantern high so that he could look in at the man. He gave a long sigh. “You’ve sure dished out a lot of hell since you hit here, brother,” he said. “Now someone’s dished it out to you. Looks like they run a horse herd over you before they turned you loose.”

  “Maybe that’s what they did.” Streak had been sitting on the cot and now stood up, wincing as his head renewed its dull throb. He came to the cell door. “Got any tobacco, Sheriff?” he asked. “I lost mine. We might as well smoke while we talk.”

  “Who’s goin’ to talk?” Kelso pulled a sack of tobacco from his coat pocket and handed it across, scowling belligerently. “I’m goin’ home to get some shut-eye.”

  “You might be interested in hearing a certain story,” Streak said.

  “Not even a bedtime story,” was Kelso’s answer. He lowered the lantern, about to turn to the outside door.

  Streak lifted his right boot from the floor and thrust it through the bars. “Pull this off, will you, Sheriff?” he said. “My head’s liable to bust if I lean over.”

  Kelso looked at the boot, making no move to reach down to it. A thin smile came to his face. “And have you kick my teeth in?” he drawled. “Unh-uh. You busted out of here once. You don’t get another chance.”

  “Suit yourself. But stick around. There’s something you ought to see.” Streak went to his knees, his face twisted as the bending over set up the ache in his head. He pulled the boot off and tossed it out through the bars onto the corridor floor. “See if you can pry the heel off, Sheriff.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because there’s something under it you might like to look at.”

  Curious now, yet hesitating as he tried to read some trick into Streak’s strange request, Fred Kelso looked down at the boot. At last he stepped over and warily moved it farther from Streak’s reach by pushing it a few feet across the floor with his cane. Only then did he set the lantern down and pick up the boot. He tried to pull the heel loose. When it didn’t come, Streak said: “Use your knife.”

  “What is this?” the lawman asked. “You tryin’ to make a fool of me?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  Kelso took out his knife, opened the big blade, and forced the point in between the sole and the built-up high heel of the boot. In another moment he had pried the heel loose. Something he saw glinting against the lantern light between the two layers of thick leather made him hurry. All at once the nails came loose, and the heel fell to the floor. Along with it dropped a shiny metal object that rang when it struck the rock. Staring down at a deputy U.S. marshal’s shield, Kelso was wordless.

  “If I hadn’t lost my coat, you could tear out the shoulder lining and have a look at my papers,” Streak said. “Since it’s lost, you’ll have to take my word for it that Jim Guilford swore me in over in Johnsville five days ago.”

  Kelso’s glance lifted abruptly from the badge to focus on Streak. “How’d you get this badge, Kincaid?” he asked. “Did you kill the man that wore it?”

  “Jim Guilford sent me in here to find out what had happened to one of his deputies, a friend of mine,” explained Streak. “This deputy’s handle was Ed Church, and he was on his way to settle that matter of issuing a permit to Fencerail. You remember my asking about him that first night? Ed was the horse thief you say stole Snyder’s splay-foot the night Dallam and Sternes were killed. But he wasn’t a horse thief, Sheriff. He was a federal officer.”

  The lawman’s seamed face had gradually taken on a frown as Streak spoke. Now he said: “The splay-foot’s gone. So your friend . . . if you’re not makin’ this all up . . . is still a horse thief.”

  “He isn’t. Yesterday, the man who made that try at Bishop here on the street was forking a splay-foot. You ran across his horse’s sign. Today I was riding that blocked-up fork of the Squaw when I happened onto a pocket in the east wall of the narrows, a mighty fine hide-out. What started me up there was seeing the track of a splay-foot pointed toward it. Whoever rode him up there got in behind me and belted me across the back of the head with an iron. I was out cold all day. Tonight that same ranny turned me loose at Crescent B. Whoever he is, he knew
Bishop’s crew would be out after my hide. He didn’t count on them bringing me in here alive.” Kelso heard his prisoner out without interruption. He had nothing to say when Streak had finished, so the latter added: “I used Tex Kincaid’s name to get either Fencerail or Bishop enough interested in me to bust me out of here. Right then, I didn’t know where you stood, so I wasn’t trusting you to see that.” He nodded down to the badge. “Now I know you aren’t for either side. If you’ll check with Buchwalter or any other Fencerail man, he’ll tell you that Morg Prenn came awful close to shooting me last night because I claimed to be Tex Kincaid. You see, Prenn knew that Kincaid had cashed in about a year ago.”

  Suddenly the sheriff’s frown eased. “Maybe you’re who you say you are. Then again, maybe you’re runnin’ another sandy.”

  “Would I half tear my head open to back a made-up story?” Streak asked. “Kelso, I’m a federal officer, here to find out what’s happened to the first man Guilford sent in. I’m almost sure Ed Church is dead. As an officer of the law, you’re bound to help get the answer.”

  “If you’re who you say you are.” The lawman put undue emphasis on his first word. The past two days had implanted in his mind too strong a suspicion of Streak to be rooted out at once. “Supposin’ this gent Church came in as you say. Supposin’ you met up with him, found out who he was, and decided it might come in handy for you to have this badge. Don’t forget that envelope I found layin’ here on the floor, friend.”

  Streak’s patience was running out. He was beginning to feel better physically, for the weakness of the past two hours was wearing off and his head did not ache so much. But having had an inkling of what Riggs and his men were planning for the night, it seemed absurd to have to stand here locked in a cell trying to argue a stubborn sheriff into believing him to be what he claimed to be. He said levelly: “That envelope was addressed to me, Ned Mathiot, and I rubbed out the name and wrote Kincaid’s instead. I’ve already told you why. If there was time, you could ride out to Prenn’s and have Buchwalter prove what I say.”