Death Rides the Night (16 page)

It wasn't thunder. It was the drumming of many hoofs approaching across the level plain from the southwest. Must be twenty riders, Pat thought, though he still couldn't see them through the deepening twilight. And they were coming at a driving gallop that would bring them to the express station in a matter of minutes.

He understood now. Ezra had been fleeing for his life, instinctively turning to Sam Sloan for help. That explained the wild look on his face, his dive through the open window without waiting to go around to the door. He didn't know about Kitty, of course. He didn't know she would be in bed trying to have a baby and that his sudden appearance would frighten her so terribly.

A cloud of dust was beginning to boil up from the plain, and the pound of galloping hoofs was becoming plain now.

Pat drew back inside the room and pulled the window shade. He turned and met Kitty's eyes, knew that she heard the riders now and that she guessed what the sound portended.

“I reckon they're after Ezra,” Pat told her harshly. “He came to Sam for help and they won't get him here. Let me handle it.” He stopped and got his good hand under Ezra's shoulder, heaved and tugged and managed finally to roll the unconscious body underneath Kitty's bed.

The labor pains were beginning to come back on her when he straightened up again. He nodded approvingly and said, “Don't hold back. I'm going to bluff 'em and you've got to help. They won't come in where a woman's about to have a baby. I'll go out an' tell 'em, and you back me up by yelling some. You've got to help, Kitty. Sam would want it that way.”

Kitty nodded and said through clenched teeth, “I know. I'll do whatever you want. Don't worry about me.”

“An' don't you worry about nothin'.” Pat threw a hurried look about the room and then strode out.

The riders were very close now. They were pulling up in front of the station.

Pat stalked to the door and flung it open. Twenty or more armed men were milling about outside on sweaty, excited horses. Some of them were dismounting while others were pulling away from the main group as though they planned to surround the station.

One swift glance told Pat that the group was made up of his friends and neighbors throughout the Valley, with none of Harlow's men among them.

But this didn't make them less dangerous. They were aroused and blood-maddened by the awful crimes charged against Ezra, and Pat knew they would waste little time arguing about it if they got hold of the fugitive now.

He stepped easily out of the door and raised his right hand in a calm gesture of greeting.

He called out, “Hi there, Nate, what's all the excitement about?”

Nate Turner was just stepping off his horse. One of the older of the Valley residents, Pat selected him as the probable leader. He saw the others looking at him queerly and heard his name being whispered from mouth to mouth as Turner came toward him.

Nate stopped ten feet in front of Pat and said gravely, “It ain't no use tryin' to cover up for him no longer, Pat. Where's he at?”

“Who?”

“Ezra.” The syllables came out with the explosiveness of a gun-shot.

Pat shrugged his shoulders and asked mildly, “What do you-all want of him?”

Turner's gaze held Pat's steadily. “He's got to hang, Pat. Being yore friend won't help him no longer. We've come after him an' we're going to take him.”

“Hold on a minute. What's Ezra done that yo're in a hanging mood?”

“What's he done?” Nate Turner exploded. “Are you standin' there an' telling me you don't know?”

“That's just what I'm doing.”

“He killed four people last night after you turned him out of jail. Ethan Page an' his wife. Mrs. Kincaid an' Jake Munort. Murdered 'em all in cold blood, Pat, without giving ary one of 'em a chance. An' just awhile ago he rode hellbent into the Trowbridge ranch all naked an' bleeding an' stole a fresh hawse an' made it away before little Tessie Trowbridge could get away and call her Paw an' the hands. He's gotta be stopped before he kills anybody else, Pat. Don't make the mistake of shielding him,” Turner went on grimly. “We mean business an' if you stand in our way it'll be just too bad for you. Ain't that the way it is, boys?” He turned to the others.

Heads were nodded vigorously and there were growls of assent.

“All this is plumb crazy,” Pat protested. “Ezra was with me all night after I helped him break jail. How in hell could he be ridin' around killing people like that?”

Turner shook his head angrily. “'Twon't do any good to lie for him. If you
were
with him, by God, that makes you a candidate for hangin' too. Hand him over to us, Pat.”

“What makes you think he's here?”

“Where else would he be?” Turner asked bitterly. “You an' Sam Sloan are the only friends he's got. An' we come acrost his hawse about a mile back with his leg broke from steppin' in a prairie dawg hole. Ezra's just about had time to make it here on foot an' we know you and Sam are hidin' him. Tell Sam to bring him out if he don't want his house burned down.”

There was no mistaking the violently ugly humor of the Powder Valley posse. Pat knew that no arguments, however plausible, would prevail against their determination to take Ezra's life. They were all convinced that he was a mad killer, and nothing would change that.

“Sam ain't here,” Pat said coolly.

“He's due to be here. He rode the mail down from Dutch Springs this mawnin'.”

“He's rode for Doc Trimble,” Pat explained loudly, hoping Kitty would hear. “His wife's in a bad way with the baby comin' and I stayed to help all I could. I ain't seen hide nor hair of Ezra since this mornin',” Pat went on heatedly. “I swear he hasn't killed nobody anyhow.”

“Swearing it ain't so won't bring 'em back to life,” Nate Turner told him. “And we're not swallowing yore story about Kitty Sloan neither. Why, I was talkin' to Doc Trimble just yesterday an' he said it'd be a couple more weeks. How'd you get shot up anyhow?” he ended curiously.

Pat grimaced down at his left shoulder. “It's a long story, an' you'd just go on calling me a liar if I was to tell you. But Kitty Sloan is the only one in the house and I can prove it.”

He stopped for a moment to listen. A high-pitched cry of agony came from the little shack behind him. He nodded with satisfaction and said, “Hear that? Does that sound like Kitty's baby was two weeks off?”

They all heard it. They all listened intently and some of their heads began nodding doubtfully. Pat pressed his advantage home. “I don't understand none of this foolishness about Ezra killin' people last night, but do you think I'd leave a crazy murderer inside the house with Kitty at a time like this? Friend or no friend! Do you think I'd do that to Kitty?”

“I reckon you'd do most anything,” said Turner obstinately, “to keep Ezra from bein' caught.”

“If I knew he was a killer?” Pat demanded angrily. “I wouldn't lift a hand to save him an' you know it, Nate. You and all the rest of you. Damn it, use some sense.” He lifted his voice and played his trump card:

“I can't stand out here talkin' to you when Kitty's in that condition. I got water boiling on the stove an' maybe she needs me right now. Come on, two or three of you, an' search the house if you think I'm lying. But for God's sake take it easy an' don't let on to Kitty yo're hunting for any madman. You know that might mark her baby.”

The men nodded uneasy assent. Some of them moved forward to hold a whispered conference with Nate Turner, and all of them were listening with at least one ear to the sounds of prenatal distress coming from Kitty's bedroom.

Pat turned his back on them and threw a parting shot over his shoulder, “Yo're wasting time around here. Better come on an' see for yoreselves an' then ride back to where you found Ezra's hawse an' pick up the trail from there. If you-all are right about him he's more'n likely out murderin' some more women and children while yo're ganged up here.”

He reached the door and stepped inside, struck a match and boldly lit a kerosene lamp in a wall bracket by the door. Kitty's moans of anguish were pulsing out through the open door from her darkened bedroom.

Nate Turner and two of the other older ranchers came to the door hesitantly. They looked ashamed at their own insistence but were determined to do their duty.

Pat lifted down the lamp and moved it about to light every corner of the room, then led them into the small kitchen.

The stove was cherry-red and all the water was boiling rapidly in the buckets and pots. Nate rubbed his jaw and stared sagely at the supply of boiling water and muttered in a low voice, “That's the ticket, awright. Plenty of hot water.”

Pat shrugged and led the way back into the living room. “The only other room you ain't looked in is the bedroom. You wanta look in there? Under Kitty's bed maybe?” He moved to open the door, holding the lamp above his head so the light touched Kitty's contorted face on the pillow.

“No,” said Turner hastily. “I don't reckon we need to, do we, fellers?”

The others shook their heads and backed away discreetly.

Two horses galloped up as they all went toward the door. They stepped aside to get out of Sam Sloan's way as he flung himself inside, his face drawn and bitter.

“How is she comin'?” he demanded harshly of Pat. “Do these yahoos think this here is a circus or somethin'?”

“She's all right. You got the doc?”

“Right behind me.” Sam turned angrily on the three ranchers who were backing toward the door. “Ain't you-all got no bringings-up?” he demanded scathingly. “Cain't a woman have a baby without the hull damn Valley pushin' in tuh get grand-stand seats?”

Doc Trimble came shambling in just then. He was a small untidy man wearing thick-lensed glasses and emitting an alcoholic odor. He glared around at the five men in the living room and snapped, “All right now. Clear out, all of you. I've got my work cut out for me and I don't want to be bothered by any blundering idiots.” He snatched the lamp from Pat's hand and hurried in to Kitty while the ranchers filed out with Pat and Sam behind them.

“I dunno what it's all about,” Pat said aloud to Sam with a warning wink. “They all come bustin' up here with some hullabaloo about chasin' Ezra and him running around crazy an' killing people and such-like crazy talk. They thought you and me was hidin' him an' wouldn't believe me when I said you were riding for the doctor.”

“We're mighty sorry to butt in,” Nate Turner apologized. “I guess maybe he didn't come thisaway after all. We'll be ridin' on, I reckon.”

“While yo're here one of you might's well make yoreselves useful and ride to the Lazy Mare to get Sally,” Pat grated. “She's goin' to feel mighty bad about not bein' here to help.”

“Shore,” said Turner hastily. “Glad to be neighborly an' help out. I'll send one of the boys fast as he can ride.”

“An' don't tell her nothing about me being shot up or nothing about Ezra and that stuff,” Pat shouted after him. “She'll be worried enough about Kitty.”

As the ranchers mounted and prepared to ride away, Pat explained to Sam in a low voice, “Kitty's fine. There's lotsa hot water an' everything's all right. Excepting that Ezra's laying under her bed knocked out. He was gettin' away from that posse and come and climbed in the window an' scared her near to death an' I had to knock him out so she wouldn't be any more scared.”

“Does she know what they're sayin' about him?” Sam demanded.

“Yep. That's why she was so scared. She was awake and heard Oscar Penrose and us talkin'.”

Sam drew him farther away from the house and spoke in a low, troubled voice, “It's lookin' worser an' worser for Ezra all thuh time. In Dutch Springs I heard that Jake Munort had willed his ranch to Ezra just a few weeks ago.”

“Willed his ranch to Ezra?” Pat echoed with sharp incredulity. “Why'd he do that?”

“God knows. No reason anybody knows 'cept how Jake hated Eustis Harlow an' wouldn't sell or borry from him. Folks think he was scared his ranch would go on the open market after he died, so he up an' willed it to Ezra just out of sheer orneriness.”

“So I reckon they're sayin' Ezra murdered him to get hold of them six sections?” Pat guessed disgustedly.

“That's about it.”

“What about the Pages and Miz Kincaid? Had
they
willed
their
ranches to Ezra too?”

“Nope. Not that anybody knows. Nobody knows any reason why he'd kill them too, but they think maybe they'll find out a reason later. Harlow has got himself in solid with a lot of 'em,” Sam went on angrily, “by comin' out today with two thousand dollars in cash that Ethan Page was borrowin' from him on the ranch and hadn't never got hold of. Harlow's givin' it to the Page kids, an' folks thinks that's mighty gen'rous of him because they say he coulda kept quiet about it an' tore up the mortgage an' kept his money if he'd bin a mind to.”

“You mean he's got a signed mortgage from Ethan Page?”

“That's right. But nobody else knowed Ethan had signed it yet, so Harlow's showin' off by bein' honest about it and forkin' over the money anyhow.”

Pat Stevens sank down on his haunches by the side of the shack and slowly rolled a cigarette. Everything was quiet inside. Doctor Trimble had taken over with his customary efficiency, and both men had ceased to worry about Kitty. As long as the doctor was sober enough to walk he was capable of delivering a baby.

Pat lit his cigarette and then said musingly, “I don't reckon Harlow had a mortgage on the Kincaid ranch too, did he?”

“Nope. The old lady was dead set against borrying money. But Gebrge'll probably borry some now with his Maw dead.”