Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (24 page)

 
          
“Stark
did that,” Fagan explained, and added a lurid hope concerning the saloonkeeper’s
future. “Lanky didn’t have yore luck, I s’pose?”

 
          
“Dead
as Adam,” was the reply. “I drug him into the bushes, case anyone came along.”

 
          
There
being nothing else to do, the other two horses were brought and the party
headed for Deadwood, where they separated and entered by devious routes. Fagan
went straight to the Lesurge cabin, where he found the owner alone.

 
          
“Well?”
Paul said sharply.

 
          
“It
ain’t, the ruffian replied, and told his story.

 
          
Lesurge
listened unmoved, much to the narrator’s astonishment. He had come prepared for
blame, angry recrimination, but the motionless mask, with its deep, dark eyes,
told him nothing.

 
          
“So
the cowboys got clear with the gold?” he said, when the tale was ended. “I
thought they might.” Fagan gaped at him. “You thought—then why in hell did you
send ‘em?” he burst out.

 
          
“For
that purpose of course,” Paul replied easily. Comprehension began to come to the
dazed man. “They were workin’ for you?”

 
          
“For
us,” Lesurge corrected. Fagan drew a deep breath; this man was too subtle for
him.

 
          
“Listen,”
the smooth voice went on. “Stark insisted on Green going, so I had a word with
him.”

 
          
“Did
you let on about us?”

 
          
“No,
that would have been too risky.”

 
          
“Hell,
Paul, didn’t I tell you that those blasted cowboys wiped out two an’ crippled
another couple of our crowd?”

 
          
“Battles
usually mean casualties.”

 
          
“You
didn’t stop to think that one o’ them corpses might ‘a’ been me?” Paul’s smile
was a sneer. “I trusted to your natural instinct for taking care of yourself,”
he said.

 
          
Fagan
knew that he had been politely called a coward but he dared not resent it—then.

 
          
“You
could ‘a’ put us wise, anyway,” he complained. “S’pose we’d got Green?”

 
          
“I
should have borne the loss with Christian fortitude, surprising as it would
have seemed to me,” was the reply.

 
          
“An’
yo’re expectin them fellas to come back an’ tell you where the dust is?” Fagan
asked incredulously.

 
          
“I
am,” Lesurge replied. “Curiously enough, though I hate him, I believe Green to
be honest—to his employer.”

 
          
“Did
he promise to smouch the gold for you?”

 
          
“Not
in so many words, but I think I made things clear.”

 
          
“Too
damned clear, I’d say, from the way he slung lead at us. Well, I hope he don’t
disappoint you; we’re all busted.”

 
          
“I’m
afraid you’ll have to wait, Fagan; I am almost down to bed-rock myself. Put
your thinking-cap on; there should be—opportunities—tonight; everyone will be
in town on account of the shooting.”

 
          
“What
shootin’?”

 
          
“Hickok
was killed last night,” Paul said coolly, and disregarding his hearer’s oath of
amazement.” He was playing poker in a saloon and by a careless oversight on his
part,
he was not facing the door. A fellow stepped in,
put a gun to the back of Hickok’s head, and fired. The bullet went right
through and wounded the player sitting opposite.” Fagan’s question was
practical. “
Who done
it?”

 
          
“A
man named McCall, I’m told,” Paul said carelessly. “I don’t remember to have
seen him. He claims that Hickok killed his brother.”

 
          
“Does
Berg know him?” Fagan
asked,
his squinting little eyes
on the other’s face.

 
          
It
told him nothing. “Now you mention it, I believe he does, but if I were you, I
wouldn’t speak of it.” Quietly spoken as the words were, they had an inflexion
which made them bite, like drops of acid, into Fagan’s brain. He knew what he
wanted to know, but regretted his curiosity.

 
          
Paul
Lesurge had brought about the death of Wild Bill. Was that why Green had been
got out of the way? It was more than possible. Who would be the next? He almost
wished he had not returned to Deadwood, but after their failure there was
nothing else to do. If only … The cold voice was speaking again:

 
          
“It
will be best to let the boys regard the gold as lost, you won’t object to
taking a bigger share, I presume? In the meantime, you must—help yourself.” The
casual, supercilious tone became hard, incisive. “Remember this, Fagan; the
affair of the coach is known only to a few; keep your mouth shut or you’ll—swing.”

 
          
“But not alone,” the other snarled, driven beyond endurance.

 
          
In
a flash Lesurge had him by the throat, his face pale with passion. “Are you
threatening me, you dog?” he hissed. “Who would believe a word from you? By
God! I’ve a mind to have you hanged in the morning….” Then the fury died out,
his hand fell away, and he laughed. “I’m sorry, Fagan; we’ve known each other
too long to fall out. It was my fault—nerves all ragged.

 
          
Have
a drink, and forget it.” The liquor, and Paul’s apparent contrition, smoothed
the other’s ruffled plumage for the moment, but outside the cabin his
expression became ugly; Fagan was not one to forgive or forget.

 
          
Reuben
Stark, his eyes bulging, his bloated face purple, glared at the man who had
just broken the bad news. Over a hundred thousand dollars, and the greater part
had been his; it was a bitter blow.

 
          
“They
got away with it?” he gasped.
“But—how?”

 
          
“Shot
the driver and express-man and drove off,” Paul lied. “But, damnation, what
were the other two fellas doin’?” the saloonkeeper exploded.

 
          
“One
of them was lying in the road, stunned by a bullet from Green which was within
an inch of killing him; the other gave chase, but with Mason firing at him from
the coach, he was helpless.”

 
          
“Green
an’ Mason,” muttered Stark dejectedly. “The two

 
          
“You
insisted on sending,” Lesurge cut in cruelly. “You must let me have some money,
Reuben. This robbery hits me hard, and my men did their best and must be paid.
McCall
too ”

 
          
“I
know nothin’ o’ that, Paul—I’ve never seen the fella,” Stark snapped, glancing
fearfully round the room. “Don’t speak that name here.” Lesurge shrugged his
shoulders contemptuously.

 
          
“Everybody
is speaking the name everywhere, but I’ll call it a debt to Berg, if you like,”
he returned. “Of course, he’ll get off.”

 
          
“Shore,
these damned gunmen have had their day,” Stark replied. He threw over a roll of
greenbacks. “I wish someone had served that swine Green the same way,” he added
vindictively, Paul pocketed the money. “Well, he won’t trouble you anymore, and
with Hickok—removed—things are not going too badly,” he consoled. “You can’t
hope for the luck to run your way all the time. Lora was asking about you.” The
pig-like eyes lighted up. “Was she now?
Ain’t seen her in
weeks.
Why don’t you fetch her round to the Monte?”

 
          
“Well
there’s Miss Ducane, she isn’t used to that sort of thing —yet. Maybe later …”

 
          
“Glad
to see Miss Lora any time,” Stark said. “Mighty fine gal, yore sister, Paul;
she’d make—”

 
          
“A
good Queen of Deadwood, eh?” Lesurge finished. “I agree.”

 
          
“Gawd,
you said it—took the words right out’n my mouth,” the fat man cried. “We must
drink to that.” For a moment, he had forgotten his losses. He filled two
glasses and raised his own. “Here’s hopin’,” he said.

 
          
Lesurge
honoured the toast, a satiric smile on his thin llps. “Wise men don’t hope—they
act,” he remarked. “By the way, best not talk of that coach robbery, except to
those concerned; you don’t want to advertise failures.” Stark assented, eagerly
enough, and Paul left him almost good-tempered; he was seeing visions, and
could she have shared them, Lora Lesurge would have been amused.

 
          
On
that same evening the disgruntled stage-robbers, reinforced by Berg, assembled
in the shack where they usually met. Fagan had given them a mendacious account
of his interview with their employer.

 
          
“Paul’s
powerful sick about it,” he said. “He ain’t blamin’ us, but we’ll have to wait
for our pay—he’s mighty near broke. He kind o’ suggested that tonight’d be a
good time to look around.”

 
          
“Somethin’
in that,” Berg commented. “Town’ll be full an’ so there’ll be a lot o’ empty
shacks.”

 
          
“The
one I have in mind’ll be empty enough for us with them two cowboys out of it,”
Fagan said.

 
          
“Yo’re
right,” Berg agreed. “
The of
Jew has been buyin’ a
deal o’ dust lately—more’n he can carry about.”

 
          
“Good.
Slip out one by one an’ wait for me outside his place,” Fagan directed.

 
          
“Four’ll
be a-plenty,” Berg excused. “You can do without me.”

 
          
“Shorely,”
Hank grinned unpleasantly. “A quarter share suits me better.” The little man
began to protest but the other would not listen. “Yo’re in, or out of it
complete,” he said roughly.

 
          
“You
dodged the last job.”

 
          
“I
had another to do,” Berg snarled.

 
          
“Oh,
yeah,” came the sneer. “Tell us you downed Wild Bill.”

 
          
“Mebbe—”
Berg started, and then caught Fagan’s warning frown—“I didn’t, but I was workin’
for all of us,” he finished.

 
          
“An’
now yo’re going to do a spot for yoreself,” Hank retorted. He went out,
followed by Lem, and Rodd limped after them.

 
          
“You
damned idjut,” Fagan growled. “Why not say straight out that Paul had Hickok
bumped off?” Berg’s furtive face was sullen. “Did he now?” he asked. “I’ll have
to tell him you said so.”

 
          
“Right
an’ order yore coffin at the same time,” was the savage rejoinder. “Don’t play
with me, Berg; it ain’t healthy.
Git after the others.”
Unconscious of approaching peril, Jacob was bending over his cherished
chess-board, intent on a problem, when a knock disturbed him. He opened the
door and at once iron hands closed on his throat, choking his cry of alarm. His
assailant, a short, powerful man, carried him into the cabin, shaking the frail
figure as a terrier might a rat. He was followed by four others; all were
masked. Flinging his burden against a wall, the first intruder pulled a pistol.

 
          
“Where’s
yore dust?” he demanded. “Speak or die.” The old man did not flinch before the
levelled weapon. “You are too late,” he said quietly. “All I had went East in
the coach last night.”

 
          
“That’s
a lie,” the ruffian roared, and Jacob felt the cold muzzle of the gun pressing
against his forehead
.“
It is the truth,” he replied
steadily.