Death Rides the Night (5 page)

“One way he ain't gonna spread out is east,” said Ezra suddenly, opening his mouth the first time since he had walked out of the meeting hall. “Not long as I'm a-settin' on the Spangler ranch.”

“That's the first place he's been foiled since he got started,” Pat agreed. “But he can swallow up the property on both sides an' put the squeeze on you. That's the sort of thing you've got to watch out for.”

“First time I've heard you talk this way,” Winters told Pat. “You're putting into words what I've had a sneaking feeling about for a couple of months. I've been going along keeping my mouth shut hoping maybe I was wrong about him.”

“I reckon that's about the way we've all felt,” Pat agreed. “Way I see it, though, we can't go on along hoping much longer. Looks to me like he showed his fangs tonight.”

“That's why you should of fought to keep on being sheriff,” the storekeeper protested. “That meeting tonight wasn't really legal. We could of protested and got up a meeting of our own with more votes on our side. Shucks,” he went on excitedly, “it still isn't too late for that. All we've got to do is call another meeting next week and vote his sheriff out and you back in. We'll do it, by golly. We'll set a date and I'll start passing the word along …”

“No you won't,” said Pat sharply.

They all looked at him in surprise.

“Give him enough rope to hang hisself,” Pat argued slowly. “With everything goin' his way he's bound to slip up. An' me, I'm sorta glad to get rid of that sheriff's badge. You'd be s'prised how heavy a little silver star can weight a man down.”

They all continued to look at him in consternation, showing that none of them understood what he was trying to say.

“Me, I never was cut out for lawin',” Pat went on blandly.
“You
know that, Sam. You an' Ezra. Wearin' that badge cramped my style somethin' awful. There's lotsa things a man'd like to do that a sheriff can't do.”

Sam's dark ugly face began to glow exuberantly. “You mean it'll be like old times again,” he exulted. “When our guns was the only law we ever needed.” He nodded happily. “That's the ticket.”

“Not quite like old times,” Pat reminded him sharply. “You've got Kitty an' a little one on the way. An' I've got Sally and Dock. Neither you nor me can risk hittin' the owl-hoot trail like we usta. We got to be a little smarter an' figure things out.”

“Best way is tuh have it out with Harlow fair an' square,” Sam muttered. “Weight him down with lead in his guts so he won't get around so good.”

“He don't pack a shootin' iron,” Pat reminded Sam. “Killin' Harlow would be murder, an' you wouldn't like iron bars separating you an' Kitty, not with the baby most due.”

Ezra began to smile. It was a torturous and terrifying process. It brought the long jagged scar on his face out into bold relief and made him more hideously ugly than before. “I ain't worryin' about no woman an' there shore ain't no woman worryin' about me,” he said flatly. “Looks like I'm the one tuh call his hand.”

“Don't be gettin' foolish idees,” Pat chided him. “You're hard to kill but you never were worth a hoot when it comes to gun-play. That Longhorned gun-jasper would shoot you down before you got a play made. Nope.” He shook his head decisively. “We got to play it smart too, an' take our time. I got a feelin' Mister Eustis Harlow is bound to overstretch hisself if we let him go. When he does, I won't be tied down with no sheriff's badge an' I'll look to you an' Sam to back my play. But I aim to do some nosin' around …” He broke off as a sharp rap sounded on the door and then it swung open.

Pete came in and closed the door behind him. The oldest and most trustworthy of the hands on the Lazy Mare, Pete had worked for Pat Stevens going on five years. He was a stocky, blond fellow of about thirty who always spoke in monosyllables and never wasted his breath if a nod or a shake of his head would do as well.

Right now Pete was excited. He and the other two Lazy Mare hands had ridden in to the meeting with Ezra and sat in the back of the hall speechless while their employer turned his badge-over to Harlow. They had left the meeting with the rest of Pat's loyal friends, and had been drinking in the Gold Eagle ever since. A lot of drinks had loosened Pete's tongue. He stood with his back against the closed door and blurted out:

“I reckoned you oughtta know they was lookin' for Ezra outside.”

“Who's lookin' for him?” asked Pat sharply.

“New sheriff.”

“Who's the new sheriff?” Pat went on patiently.

“Thin guy. From Texas. Reckon they call him Tripo.”

“Him with the two guns an' the mustache,” John Boyd put in.

“What does he want with Ezra?” Pat probed.

“Dunno. Heard some talk 'bout 'restin' him.”

“What for?”

Pete shook his head. “Didn' say.”

“Where's this Tripo now?”

“Out front with Harlow.” Pete jerked his head toward the door through which he had entered.

There was silence in the back room. Pat reached for the whiskey and put it to his mouth. It was purely reflex action while his mind took in the import of Pete's news.

Ezra sat very still with his big mouth hanging half open, a look of childlike consternation on his red-whiskered face. Boyd and Winters watched Pat to see how he would react.

Sam Sloan was the first one to speak. He stood up and his calloused right hand caressed the gun-butt at his hip. “I reckon mebby I'll take a hand,” he murmured. “Anybody wants tuh 'rest Ezra …”

Pat set the bottle down with a loud thump. “No, Sam. That's the wrong play.”

“Is it?” Sam's dark face was expressionless. “We're cooped up here with the only way out through the front. I'll go out fust an' see that nobody stops us.”

Pat got up. He said in a harder voice, “You've got to think of Kitty, and your job.”

Sam's upper lip curled away from his teeth contemptuously. “I'm the only one hereabouts packin' a gun,” he pointed out as though that automatically settled everything.

“That's what they want,” Pat reminded him angrily. “You'll get you an' Ezra both killed if you start somethin'. Then there'll be two less of us against Harlow.”

“Mebby somebody else might git killed 'stead of us,” Sam said in a gentle, terribly remote voice. “I ain't bin hitched up to Kitty long as you have to Sally, Pat, an' I reckon I ain't got plumb softened up yet. You comin' behind me, Ezra?”

“Shore thing.” Ezra looked happy again. He heaved his huge body out of the chair and looked around for a weapon. He picked up the chair and studied it thoughtfully, then smashed it down on a corner of the table and wrenched a heavy leg loose.

“You two crazy galoots!” Pat kicked his chair back and leaped to his feet. “I won't let you do it. You're lettin' them choose the time an' place. You won't be any good to Powder Valley dead.”

“I reckon it ain't you that's doin' the decidin',” said Sam Sloan coldly. “I've got six slugs that says …”

Pat took one long step forward and swung his right fist up from the floor at the same time. It cracked solidly against Sam Sloan's jaw and sent the smaller man to the floor. Ezra stared down at his fallen partner stupidly while Pat leaned over him and jerked the gun from Sam's holster.

“You shouldn't ort to've hit Sam,” Ezra began in a troubled voice. “Dang it, Pat …”

Pat straightened up with Sam's gun in his hand. His gray eyes were bleak and he was breathing hard. He said, “Put down that chair leg, Ezra.”

John Boyd started to interfere. He took a step forward. “What's got into you, Pat? What in tarnation …?”

“I'm takin' Ezra out to the sheriff,” said Pat thinly. “Put it down, Ezra, 'fore I shoot it out of your hand. You're goin' out quiet.”

Ezra blinked his one eye and it looked for a moment as though it was misted over with tears. He said sadly, “I shore never thought …”

“To hell with what you ever thought,” raged Pat. “Open that door, Pete.”

Pete opened the door.

“Move on out.” Pat gestured Ezra toward the door leading out into the saloon.

Ezra dropped his improvised weapon. He stood for a moment with his great arms swinging laxly by his side, then he hung his head and went out in front of Pat.

The saloon was full of men and of loud talk. The words died on men's lips as they turned and saw Ezra shambling toward them with a grim-faced Pat Stevens following him with Sam's gun in his hand.

The new sheriff and Eustis Harlow bustled back from the front of the saloon. Tripo had his hands on both guns and was smiling thinly. Harlow's florid face was a curious mask of indecision and hardly concealed anger. He demanded, “What's going on here, Stevens?”

“I heard your new sheriff wanted to arrest Ezra. Here he is, soon as I hear the charge.”

Men looked at each other and shook their heads in hopeless incomprehension. If the gun-partnership between Pat, Ezra and Sam was busting up, their glances said, things had sure come to a bad pass in Powder Valley.

Tripo looked at Harlow and shrugged. He drawled, “Thanks for yo' he'p, Stevens. I'm locking Ezra up fo' rustlin'.”

“Who made the charge?” Pat asked.

“I did,” Harlow said blandly. “I'm ready to swear a dozen head of my pure-bred heifers are in Ezra's pasture right now.”

Pat nodded. His face was as expressionless as though it had been carved from granite. “He's your prisoner, Sheriff.”

Ezra stood motionless with his head hanging. He was completely dazed, as though robbed of all will of his own. He submitted wordlessly when Tripo took him by the arm and led him out the door toward the jail.

“Now that's mighty handsome of you, Stevens,” Harlow said expansively. “I'm willing to admit I misjudged you. Frankly, I didn't make my charge against Ezra while you were still sheriff because I feared your loyalty toward an old friend might be stronger than your sense of duty. I owe you an apology and I'll buy a drink.”

Pat said, “That'll be fine,” tonelessly. He moved to the bar with Harlow.

“You others come on, too,” Harlow called jovially to Boyd, Winters and Pete who had come out of the back room. “I'm setting up the drinks.”

“Why no,” said John Boyd thoughtfully. “I was always sorta choosy who I drink with.” He looked at Pat as he said it, then turned back to Sam Sloan who was beginning to come around. Winters and Pete followed him, stony-faced, not looking at Pat.

Harlow laughed heartily as they went out. “Men like that are always carrying a grudge, eh?” He nudged Pat. “I'm glad to see you've got better sense.”

Pat said, “Thanks.” He accepted a drink from Harlow and lifted it to his lips.

5

Sally had gone to bed by the time Pat got back to the ranch. The house lay dark and silent in the soft moonlight. Pat was glad Sally had gone to bed without waiting up for him. He hoped she would be asleep. It was an indication of the new feeling of security that had come to all of them in the Valley. It was only in the last few years that Sally had been able to force herself to turn in while her husband was still out.

He thought back over those earlier days as he stopped his horse well away from the house to avoid waking Sally. He had never returned so late that a lighted window hadn't told him Sally was sitting up. He felt a queer tightness in his belly as he remembered the look he'd seen in Sally's eyes on some of those occasions when she had waited at home without knowing whether he would come back to her or not.

It was tough on a woman, he reflected soberly as he ground-tied his horse and started toward the house, walking with exaggerated care to make as little noise as possible. Lots harder on the woman who sat at home and wondered and worried and imagined things than on the man who went out into danger trusting his guns to carry him through.

Lately, since he had been sheriff, Sally hadn't worried so much. She seemed to think the silver star of lawdom was a sort of magical symbol that protected a man from harm.

Now, things were going to be different again. The old dangers were back, and the old fears would inevitably return with them. Once more Sally would take to sitting in the living room with a light in the window while she prayed for his safety.

All because of one man. All because of Eustis Harlow's inordinate ambitions to control the whole of Powder Valley. A cold rage burned inside Pat Stevens as he thought about it. It would be the same all over the Valley after tonight. The feeling of security would be shattered by tonight's events. Neighbor would be taking sides against neighbor and a fierce mistrust would drive wedges between the strongest friendships. It had already started, he recalled. His mouth was dry with anger and with a hopeless feeling of loss as he remembered the looks on the faces of Mr. Winters and John Boyd when they refused to drink with him and Harlow in the Gold Eagle.

He wasn't angry at Winters and Boyd. He did think they might have trusted him further, might have searched their hearts and found the realization that Pat acted for the best when he turned Ezra over to the new sheriff, but he didn't blame them too much. They were honest and straightforward men who believed in meeting any challenge straight on, who couldn't understand compromise with right for the sake of expediency. His anger was directed at Eustis Harlow who had brought about the situation that drove Pat to seemingly turn against his friends.

He reached the front door and opened the screen door cautiously. He turned the knob and pressed down on the wooden door to keep the hinges from creaking as he went in. He moved across the living room cautiously, striking a match and shielding it between his palms, found a lamp and lighted it, turned the wick low so it cast a faint yellow light across the room.