Novel 1971 - Tucker (v5.0) (6 page)

For three blocks I followed her, moving carefully from door to door, and when she turned another corner I was only a few steps behind her. At the corner I stopped, close against the buildings, and looked after her.

She paused in front of a building, looking up and down the street, and then she turned and entered a doorway.

For a moment I stood there, studying the street and the building. It was two stories high, with a balcony along the front, and several windows as well as two doors on the ground floor. One of the doors, the one she had entered, I thought probably led to the upstairs.

Nobody else seemed to be on the street. It was still muddy from the rain but I could see a few dry spots where a man might cross without getting his boots too muddy. I did not want them caked with mud, for mud crunches underfoot and makes one’s movements too loud.

No light showed upstairs, though maybe there was one in back. I walked down the block to get a look at the back of the building. There was a dim light in one room on the upper floor.

Who was up there? Ruby Shaw was Heseltine’s girl, and Reese as well as Sites might be somewhere else. But Heseltine would have a part of my money.

My mouth was pretty dry as I walked toward the front again. I did not want to open that dark door, climb the stairs inside, and go along a dark hall to that lighted room. Every foot of it would be a danger, and then I’d have to knock on the door. I couldn’t just open it, there being a woman in there—she might be undressing. The thought of it almost stopped me. I didn’t want to run into any shameful things, or embarrass an undressing woman…or myself.

Yet I had to go ahead.

Slipping the thong off my gun-hammer, I went softly along the boardwalk and opened the door with my left hand. It opened out slowly…all was dark inside.

This was something new for me, and I did not want to get myself killed, and as pa always warned me, “If you go among the Indians you have to think like them.” Stepping through the door, I found myself in a narrow hall. On my left was a door that might lead to a storeroom or cellar. A stairway went up to the rooms on the second floor.

Walking along the hall toward the back, I found myself facing a door, invisible except for the white porcelain knob. On my left was the newel post at the foot of the stairway. Putting my left hand on the post, I went around it to the first step.

Something was on my foot…mud dropped by the girl, no doubt. Pausing, I scraped my instep off against the edge of the stair, then started up.

I’d taken two steps when that door behind me opened. I turned, my left hand going to the wall as I sank to a crouch on the steps, my right hand coming up with my gun even as a shotgun belched a twin bore of flame. The thundering roar in the narrow hall drowned the two shots from my pistol.

There was a moment when I crouched in stunned silence. Scraping my foot had saved my life, for he had been counting my steps and believed I was one step higher. He had aimed for my waistline and had missed me by a foot or more.

It was only a split second that I was still, then I went up the steps two at a time. A door was opening a crack; it was not quite dark inside.

My shoulder hit the door and smashed it open; somebody fell to the floor with a crash.

By a dim reflected light in the room I could see a bed topped with a gray blanket, the brass bedstead gleaming dully, a dresser with a white bowl and pitcher. Stepping back, I held my gun on the fallen man and said quietly, “Get up slowly and light a light. I can see you well enough to shoot, and I’ve just killed one man.”

Whether that was true or not, I did not know, but I figured to see where I was and who I was with.

“Don’t shoot! For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”

Slowly the man got up, struck a match, and lit the kerosene lamp. Then he turned to face me…a perfect stranger.

“Mister,” I said, “I’d no right to bust in. I was hunting Kid Reese, Bob Heseltine, and them.”

“They pulled their freight,” he said. “Heseltine, the girl, and another gent. One of them was layin’ for you.”

“You knew that?”

“Heard talk.” He jerked his head toward the wall. “Nobody builds walls thick enough these days. I heard some talk, but I’d no idea what it meant. Then when the girl come up the steps, I seen her. Right off, she and two others left.”

“How?”

“Yonder.” He indicated the balcony. “A feller can step from this balcony to the next one pretty easy. There’s a stairway down.”

I took up the lamp and went down the stairs. I could hear voices, and folks coming along the street.

The dead man lay sprawled at the foot of the steps—only he wasn’t dead. I’d put two bullets in him, all right, but he was alive and staring up at me.

“Doc,” I said, and I still held the gun, “I want my money.”

“They…they got it.”

“You’re not carrying any of it?” I kicked the shotgun and bent over him.

Just then the door opened and Duggan came in. Con Judy was with him.

“I think this man is carrying some of my money,” I said.

“Take it off him then,” Duggan said. Looking down at Doc Sites he said, “You shot high, boy. You got to watch that.”

“It was in the dark, and when he came out of that door I dropped on the steps. He’d counted wrong and figured I was one step higher.”

Opening Sites’s coat, I saw a thick money-belt and took it from him. Sites lay still, staring at me. “Help me!” he said hoarsely. “I’m dying.”

“My pa died,” I said, “because of you and them.”

Duggan was sizing up the situation. Doc Sites’s position, the place where the double charge of buckshot had hit the step and my own bullet holes in Sites made it clear enough.

The man into whose room I had burst came down the steps, slipping his suspenders over his shoulders. They’d been hanging loose when I had him light the lamp.

“It’s like this here man says,” he told them. “I was fixin’ for bed when I heard all this sudden scurryin’ about and seen them take off across the balcony.

“Somebody—it must’ve been the wounded man—went down the steps in the dark an’ I heard the door close at the foot of the steps. Now that there is an empty room, and it didn’t seem right, somehow, a man goin’ into an empty room in the dark.

“Then I heard this man, comin’ cautious-like. I opened the door for a peek, then closed it. Heard the shots and opened it again.”

The smell of gunpowder hung in the narrow hall. Sites still stared up at us. “You goin’ to let me die?”

“Serve you right,” Duggan said, “but I’ll see you’re fetched.”

I showed him the money-belt. “I’m taking this along,” I said. “It’s part of my money.”

Duggan shrugged. “Lucky to get yourself part of it, but was I you I’d take after those others.”

Back at the Clarendon I opened the money-belt and counted out the gold. One hundred pieces—one hundred twenty-dollar gold pieces, but it was only a small part of what I had lost.

“Either they haven’t divided it up even,” I said, “or they have and Doc cached most of his share.”

“We’d better search his room,” Con said thoughtfully, “and right away, before somebody else does.”

“Con,” I said, “I don’t believe we’ll find it.”

He studied me, then he smiled. “You’re learning, Shell. You think the others took it along?”

“Figure it out for yourself. From what I know of them I’d say they’d steal from each other as quick as from me and pa. Doc was going to lay for me with a shotgun. They figured he’d get me, but in case he didn’t—”

“And if he did? And found his money gone?”

“They’d give it back. He wouldn’t dare brace Bob Heseltine and call him a thief. They’d just say they took care of it for him.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I shrugged. “Sleep. In the morning I’m going to put most of this in the bank. I’m going to keep two hundred dollars as part of my share and use it to live on whilst tracking them down.”

Before I went to sleep I sat down, and taking some paper the hotel provided, I struggled through the writing of a letter. I addressed it to Burton J. Ely, who was our neighbor, and who’d had a share in the herd.

Chapter 6

B
Y NOONTIME EVERYBODY in Leadville seemed to have heard about the shooting. Doc Sites was alive and might remain so, and I hoped he would. I had no need in me to kill Doc Sites, despite the fact he’d laid for me with a shotgun.

Because I had dropped on the steps, my shots had gone high, and his double charge had gone right past my head, a little high and to the right. At that close range the shots hadn’t begun to scatter, but they blew a hole in the step you could put a fist through.

At breakfast men stopped by the table where I sat with Con Judy. “Served him right,” they said. One added, “Only next time make it a mite lower. We don’t need his kind.”

We heard nothing of Heseltine or Reese. It seemed likely they had pulled their freight. Con had business in town so I nosed about, keeping the thong off my six-shooter just in case.

Con cautioned me, “Let them run and hide. Ruby won’t like that, and we both know it. Money’s no good unless they can spend it, and she will get tired of being holed up with two jumpy outlaws.”

“What I can’t figure,” I said, “is why they’re so scared. Heseltine is surely better than me with a pistol, and for that matter, Reese must be too.”

Con shrugged. “When they knew you back in Texas you were just a shave-tail kid, and when they braced you back on the trail you weren’t much more. They had only contempt for you, Shell. Men will often take advantage of anyone they believe is helpless to retaliate.

“The change in their thinking started when you took after them. That worried them, because it showed you weren’t afraid to meet them. They probably didn’t know who I was, and they were worried because you were no longer alone.

“Despite all the talk you hear about gunmen, most of them stay in their own district and avoid people on the other side of town. When you came to Leadville you seemed to have connections, and that would worry them. You can bet they heard talk; they knew you had cleared yourself with Duggan, and you seemed to be friendly with businessmen around town. You were no longer somebody to be treated with contempt.

“Then after somebody took that shot at you, that put them in the wrong. It was a shot from the dark—and it was a damn fool thing to do because it put them on record for the kind of men who would dry-gulch a man, and it also showed they weren’t sure of their own position.”

It made sense, of course. Nevertheless, I was worried about that money. If they had hit the trail I might never get any more of it, and I didn’t like the thought of that. Anyway, town was a-fretting me.

I’d been raised where the long wind blows and the short-grass plains roll away to the edge of the sky. I was used to the smell of a buffalo-chip fire and the feel of a saddle. I’d had it in me too long to get quickly weaned away by fancy grub and store-bought clothes.

So I said nothing, but laid in a stock of traveling grub and a couple hundred rounds of .44’s that would fit either my Winchester or my hand gun.

“You figurin’ on startin’ a war?” the man there in the hardware store asked me.

“Well, sir,” I said, “those men taken money we’d been paid for cattle gathered by pa and his neighbors. Those folks sweat hard for that money. They made their gather in rain or shine or hail, and they held those cattle, come storm or stampede. Those folks back yonder trusted us. I figure if it has to be a war, it’ll be a war.”

He reached under the counter and come up with a six-shooter. It was mighty close to being new, and it was a fine weapon, fine as a man could wish.

“Boy,” he said, “that gun you’re packin’ looks mighty used up, and I like the way you shape up. You take this here gun in place of the one you’ve got, and welcome.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Maybe. But I can. If you get your money, you ride by here and pay me; if you don’t, forget it. I wouldn’t want to see a man go up against Bob Heseltine with a wore-out gun.”

“Thanks,” was all I could say.

That gun had a feel to it, the right kind of feel. I held it in my hands and felt the balance of it, and I tried it in my holster and they fit as if they were made for each other.

“That’s a fine piece,” I commented, “and it’s had some use. Is it yours?”

“My brother carried that gun. He was a good man, but the morning he was killed he wasn’t carrying it, but an old one he was takin’ to be fixed.”

“What happened?”

“He’d had words with a man, a good time back. He met the man on the street, and my brother was killed. We buried him two years ago outside of Tin-Cup.”

“Sorry.”

“He knew that man was huntin’ him. He bought this gun for the purpose, and he had used it some. He loved the gun, and carried it a lot, but that mornin’ he’d promised to get a gun fixed for our nephew, and it was easier to carry in his holster. Heseltine wasn’t even supposed to be around.”

“Heseltine?”

“Bob Heseltine killed him. My brother might have beaten Heseltine, because he was a good man with a gun, but he hadn’t a chance. This here gun that I’ve given you was meant to be used against Heseltine.”

I drew the gun again, and looked at it. It was like any other Peacemaker Colt, but—well, it felt different. Maybe it
was
different.

Some guns had a different feel to them, some guns felt right to a man. Usually, it was the getting used to a gun. A man could always shoot a mite better with his own weapon, but this feeling was something different.

“Thanks,” I said again, and walked out into the street where the morning sun was bright.

It was warm out there where the sun was shining, but the wind was raw when a man stepped from shelter. The gun rested easy in my holster…a gun bought to kill a man. Or rather, for a man to defend himself.

Crossing the street, I picked my way around the mudholes and across the ruts cut deep by freight wagons. Some of them had water standing in them.

Clouds were bunching over the peaks. Some of the peaks you couldn’t even see, but the sunshine was still on the street. I turned and looked along it. I would have to be careful now; I could walk nowhere without thinking of who might be waiting for me, or who I might come on unexpectedly.